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Stories  of  Adventure  in   The 
Young   United  States 

Bu  ALFRED  BISHOP  MASON 

Tom  Strong, 
Washington's  Scout 

Illustrated,  $1.30  net 

Tom  Strong, 
Boy-Cafiain 

Illustrated,  $1.30  net 

Tom    Strong, 
Junior 

Illustrated.  $1.30  net 

Tom   Strong, 
Third 

Illustrated.  $1.30  net 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 


St.  Gaudens'  Statue  of  Lincoln 


TOM   STRONG, 
LINCOLN'S   SCOUT 


A  STORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES  IN  THE 
TIMES  THAT  TRIED  MEN'S  SOULS 


By 
ALFRED   BISHOP   MASON 

Author  of  "Tom  Strong,  Washington's  Scout,  '  "Tom  Strong, 

Boy-Captam,"  "  Tom  Strong,  Junior,"  and 

"  Tom  Strong,  Third   " 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 
HENRY    HOLT  AND    COMPANY 

1919 


Copyright,  iqiq 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


gftt  eutnn  &  goben   Company 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY  NEW     JERSEY 


q-1%    ■iL(oJ 


DEDICATED   BY   PERMISSION 
TO 

THEODORE    ROOSEVELT 

INSPIRER   OF  PATRIOTISM, 
A  GREAT  AMERICAN 


f. 


CS^ 


evareit  bav 

LON*  ISI.AMO.M.V. 


Auguat  3l8t,  1917, 


Detr  Mr.  Mason: 

All  right,   I  shall  break 
my  rule  andhave  you  dedicate  that  book  to 
Be>       Thank  you/ 

Faithfully  youre. 


Mr.   Alfred  B.    Mason, 
University  Club, 
Ken  Ycrk   City. 


Jr-i^iJ^^^w:.^^        /"S^^r^^tJ^^^s:-^^ 


FOREWORD 

Many  of  the  persons  and  personages  who  ap- 
pear upon  the  pages  of  this  book  have  already 
Uved,  some  in  history  and  some  in  the  pages  of 
"  Tom  Strong,  Washington's  Scout,"  **  Tom 
Strong,  Boy-Captain,"  "  Tom  Strong,  Junior," 
or  ''  Tom  Strong,  Third."  Those  who  wish  to 
know  the  full  story  of  the  four  Tom  Strongs, 
great-grandfather,  grandfather,  father  and  son, 
should  read  those  books,  too. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 


(< 


PAGE 


Tom  Rides  in  Western  Maryland — Halted 
BY  Armed  Men — John  Brown — The  At- 
tack UPON  Harper's  Ferry — The  Fight — 
John  Brown's  Soul  Goes  Marching  On  . 


CHAPTER  H 

Our  War  with  Mexico — Kit  Carson  and  His 
Lawyer,  Abe  Lincoln — Tom  Goes  to  Lin- 
coln's Inauguration — S.  F.  B.  Morse,  In- 
ventor OF  THE  Telegraph — Tom  Back  in 
Washington 22 


CHAPTER  III 

Charles  Francis  Adams — Mr.  Strong  Goes 
TO  Russia — Tom  Goes  to  Live  in  the 
White  House — Bull  Run — **  Stonewall  " 
Iackson  —  Geo.  B.  McClellan  —  Tom 
Strong,  Second-Lieutenant,  U.  S.  A. — 
The  Battle  of  the  **  Merrimac  "  and  the 
Monitor  " 40 


CHAPTER  IV 

Tom  Goes  West — Wilkes  Booth  Hunts  Him 
— Dr.  Hans  Rolf  Saves  Him — He  Deliv- 
ers Despatches  to  General  Grant  .       .       71 

ix 


PAGE 


X  Contents 

CHAPTER  V 

Inside  the  Confederate  Lines — "  Sairey  " 
Warns  Tom — Old  Man  Tomblin's  "  Set- 
TLEMiNT  "  —  Stealing  a  Locomotive  — 
Wilkes  Booth  Gives  the  Alarm — A 
Wild  Dash  for  the  Union  Lines     .       .       90 

CHAPTER  VI 

Tom  up  a  Tree — Did  the  Confederate  Of- 
ficer See  Him? — The  Fugitive  Slave 
Guides  Him — Buying  a  Boat  in  the  Dark 
— Adrift  in  the  Enemy's  Country     .       .117 

CHAPTER  VII 

Tov^ser  Finds  the  Fugitives — Tov^ser  Brings 
Uncle  Moses — Mr.  Izzard  and  His  Yan- 
kee Overseer,  Jake  Johnson — Tom  Is 
Pulled  Down  the  Chimney — How^  Un- 
cle Moses  Choked  the  Overseer — The 
Flight  of  the  Four 129 

CHAPTER  VIII 

Lincoln  Saves  Jim  Jenkins's  Life — News- 
paper Abuse  of  Lincoln — The  Emancipa- 
tion Proclamation — Lincoln  in  His 
Nightshirt — James  Russell  Lowell — 
"  Barbara  Frietchie  " — Mr.  Strong  Comes 
Home — The  Russian  Fleet  Comes  to 
New  York — A  Backwoods  Jupiter     .       .     160 

CHAPTER  IX 

Tom  Goes  to  Vicksburg — Morgan's  Raid — 
Gen.  Basil  W.  Duke  Captures  Tom — 
Gettysburg — Gen.  Robert  E.  Lee  Gives 
Tom  His  Breakfast — In  Libby  Prison — 
Lincoln's  Speech  at  Gettysburg       .       .     182 


Contents  xi 


PAGE 


CHAPTER  X 

Tom  Is  Hungry — He  Learns  to  "  Spoon  "  by 
Squads — The  Bullet  at  the  Window — 
Working  on  the  Tunnel — "  Rat  Hell  " — 
The  Risk  of  the  Roll-call — What  Hap- 
pened TO  Jake  Johnson,  Confederate  Spy 
— Tom  in  Libby  Prison — Hans  Rolf 
Attends  Him — Hans  Refuses  to  Escape — 
The  Flight  Through  the  Tunnel — Free, 
but  How  to  Stay  So? 213 

CHAPTER  XI 

Tom  Hides  in  a  River  Bank — Eats  Raw  Fish 
— Jim  Grayson  Aids  Him — Down  the 
James  River  on  a  Tree — Passing  the  Pa- 
trol Boats — Cannonaded — The  End  of 
the  Voyage 249 

CHAPTER  XII 

TowsER  Welcomes  Tom  to  the  White  House 
— Lincoln  Re-elected  President — Grant 
Commander-in-Chief — Sherman  Marches 
FROM  Atlanta  to  the  Sea — Tom  on 
Grant's  Staff — Five  Forks — Fall  of 
Richmond — Hans  Rolf  Freed — Bob  Saves 
Tom  from  Capture — Tom  Takes  a  Bat- 
tery INTO  Action — Lee  Surrenders — Tom 
Strong,  Brevet-Captain,  U.  S.  A.       .       .     265 

CHAPTER  XIII 
The  Assassination  of  Abraham  Lincoln     .     307 

CHAPTER  XIV 

Tom  Hunts  Wilkes  Booth — The  End  of  the 
Murderer — Andrew  Johnson,  President 
OF  THE  United  States — Tom  and  Towser 
Go  Home 315 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Abraham  Lincoln Frontispiece 

St.   Gaudens   Statue,    Lincoln  Park,   Chicago 

PAGE 

John   Brown lo 

The  Attack  upon  the  Engine  House      .        .  17 
Battle  of  the  "Monitor"''  and  the  "  Mer- 

RIMAC  '* 66 

Admiral  Farragut 72 

Mississippi  River  Gunboats        ....  85 

The  Locomotive  Tom  Helped  to  Steal  .        .  106 

TowsER 157 

General  Duke  Samples  the  Pies    .        .        .  191 

Arlington 198 

Gen.  Robert  E.  Lee  on  Traveler    .        .        .  201 
LiBBY  Prison  after  the  War       .        .        .        .214 

Fighting  the  Rats 224 

LiBBY  Prison  and  the  Tunnel  ....  229 

Abraham  Lincoln  in   1864        ....  269 

Gen.  W.  T.  Sherman   ......  272 

St.  Gaudens  Statue,  Central  Park  Plaza,  New  York 

Bob 275 

Gen.  Philip  H.  Sheridan 278 

Sheridan  Square  Statue,  Washington.   D.   C. 

Tom  Takes  a  Battery  into  Action        .        .  292 
The    McLean    House,    Appomattox    Court- 
house            299 

Lee  Surrenders  to  Grant 302 

Gen.  U.  S.  Grant 304 

MAP 

Eastern  Half  of  United  States       ...  2 

xiii 


TOM  STRONG,   LINCOLN'S   SCOUT 


THE  EASTERN  UNITED  STATES 
(Showing  places  mentioned  in  this  book) 


TOM  STRONG,  LINCOLN'S    SCOUT 

CHAPTER  I 

Tom  Rides  in  Western  Maryland — Halted  by 
Armed  Men — John  Brown — The  Attack 
UPON  Harper's  Ferry — The  Fight — John 
Brown's  Soul  Goes  Marching  On. 

/^N  a  beautiful  October  afternoon,  a  man  and 
a  boy  were  riding  along  a  country  road 
in  Western  Maryland.  To  their  left  lay  the 
Potomac,  its  waters  gleaming  and  sparkling 
beneath  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  To  their 
right,  low  hills,  wooded  to  the  top,  bounded  the 
view.  They  had  left  the  little  town  of  Harper's 
Ferry,  Virginia,  an  hour  before;  had  crossed  to 
the  Maryland  shore  of  the  Potomac;  and  now 
were  looking  for  some  country  inn  or  friendly 
farmhouse  where  they  and  their  horses  could  be 
cared  for  overnight. 

The  man  was  Mr.  Thomas  Strong,  once  Tom 

3 


4       Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

Strong,  third,  and  the  boy  was  his  son,  another 
Tom  Strong,  the  fourth  to  bear  that  name.  Like 
the  three  before  him  he  was  brown  and  strong, 
resolute  and  eager,  with  a  smile  that  told  of  a 
nature  of  sunshine  and  cheer.  They  were  look- 
ing for  land.  Mr.  Strong  had  inherited  much 
land  in  New  York  City.  The  growth  of  that 
great  town  had  given  him  a  comfortable  for- 
tune. He  had  decided  to  buy  a  farm  somewhere 
and  a  friend  had  told  him  that  Western  Mary- 
land was  almost  a  paradise.  So  it  was,  but  this 
Eden  had  its  serpent.  Slavery  was  there.  It 
was  a  mild  and  patriarchal  kind  of  slavery,  but 
it  had  left  its  black  mark  upon  the  countryside. 
Across  the  nearby  Mason  and  Dixon's  line, 
Pennsylvania  was  full  of  little  farms,  tilled  by 
their  owners,  and  of  little  towns,  which  reflected 
the  wealth  of  the  neighboring  farmers.  West- 
ern Maryland  was  largely  owned  by  absentee 
landlords.  Its  towns  were  tiny  villages.  Its 
farms  were  few  and  far  between.  The  free  State 
was  briskly  alive;  the  slave  State  was  sleepily 
dead. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout       5 

The  two  riders  were  splendidly  mounted,  the 
father  on  a  big  bay  stallion,  Billy-boy,  and  the 
son  on  a  black  Morgan  mare,  Jennie.  Billy-boy 
was  a  descendant  of  the  Billy-boy  General 
Washington  had  given  to  the  first  Tom  Strong, 
many  years  before.  Jennie  was  a  descendant 
of  the  Jennie  Tom  Strong,  third,  had  ridden 
across  the  plains  of  the  great  West  with  John 
C.  Fremont,  ^'  the  Pathfinder,"  first  Republican 
candidate  for  President  of  the  United  States. 

**  We  haven't  seen  a  house  for  miles,  Father," 
said  the  boy. 

"  And  we  were  never  out  of  sight  of  a  house 
when  we  were  riding  through  Pennsylvania. 
There's  always  a  reason  for  such  things.  Do 
you  know  the  reason?" 

"No,  sir.    What  is  it?" 

"  The  sin  of  slavery.  I  don't  believe  I  shall 
buy  land  in  Maryland.  I  thought  I  might  plant 
a  colony  of  happy  people  here  and  help  to  make 
Maryland  free,  in  the  course  of  years,  but  Fm 
beginning  to  think  the  right  kind  of  white  peo- 
ple won't  come  where  the  only  work  is  done  by 


6       Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

slaves.  We  must  find  soon  a  place  to  sleep. 
Perhaps  there'll  be  a  house  around  that  next 
turn  in  the  road.  Billy-boy  whinnies  as  though 
there  were  other  horses  near." 

Billy-boy's  sharp  nose  had  not  deceived  him. 
There  were  other  horses  near.  Just  around  the 
turn  of  the  road  there  were  three  horses.  Three 
armed  men  were  upon  them.  Father  and  son 
at  the  same  moment  saw  and  heard  them. 

''  You  stop  !     Who  be  you?  " 

The  sharp  command  was  backed  by  uplifted 
pistols.  The  Strongs  reined  in  their  horses, 
with  indignant  surprise.  Who  were  these  three 
farmers  who  seemed  to  be  playing  bandits  upon 
the  peaceful  highroad?  The  boy  glanced  at  his 
father  and  tried  to  imitate  his  father's  cool  de- 
meanor. He  felt  the  shock  of  surprise,  but  his 
heart  beat  joyously  with  the  thought :  ''  This  is 
an  adventure!"  All  his  young  life  he  had 
longed  for  adventures.  He  had  deeply  enjoyed 
the  novel  experience  of  the  week's  ride  with  the 
father  he  loved,  but  he  had  not  hoped  for  a 
thrill  like  this. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout       7 

Mr.  Strong  eyed  the  three  horsemen,  who 
seemed  both  awkward  and  uneasy.  "  What 
does  this  mean?"  he  asked. 

''  Now,  thar  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  harm  done 
you  nor  done  bub,  thar,  neither,"  the  leader  of 
the  highwaymen  answered,  with  a  note  almost 
of  pleading  in  his  voice.  "  Don't  you  be  oneasy. 
But  you'll  have  to  come  with  us " 

"  And   spend   Sunday  with  us "  broke  in 

another  man. 

"  Shet  up.  Bill.  I'll  do  all  the  talkin'  that's 
needed." 

"  That's  what  you  do  best,"  the  other  man 
grumbled. 

"  Well,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Strong,  turning  with 
a  smile  to  his  son,  "  we  seem  to  have  found  that 
place  to  spend  the  night."  He  faced  his  captors. 
"  This  is  a  queer  performance  of  yours.  You 
don't  look  like  highwaymen,  though  you  act  like 
them.  Do  you  mean  to  steal  our  horses?"  he 
added,  sharply. 

"  We  ain't  no  boss  thieves,"  replied  the 
leader.     "  You've  got  to  come  with  us,  but  you 


8       Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

needn't  be  no  way  oneasy.  You,  Bill,  ride 
ahead!" 

Bill  turned  his  horse  and  rode  ahead,  Mr. 
Strong  and  Tom  riding  behind  him,  the  other 
two  men  behind  them.  It  was  a  silent  ride,  but 
not  a  long  one.  Within  a  mile,  they  reached  a 
rude  clearing  that  held  a  couple  of  log  huts. 
The  sun  had  set;  the  short  twilight  was  over. 
Firelight  gleamed  in  the  larger  of  the  huts.  The 
prisoners  were  taken  to  it.  A  man  who  was 
lounging  outside  the  door  had  a  whispered  talk 
with  the  three  horsemen.  Then  he  turned 
rather  sheepishly;  said:  ''Come  in,  mister; 
come  in,  bub;"  opened  the  door,  called  within: 
"  Prisoners,  Captin'  Smith,"  and  stepped  aside 
as  father  and  son  entered. 

There  were  a  dozen  men  in  the  big  room, 
farmers  all,  apparently.  They  were  all  on  their 
feet,  eyeing  keenly  the  unexpected  prisoners. 
Their  eyes  turned  to  a  tall  man,  who  stepped 
forward  and  held  out  his  hand,  saying: 

''  Sorry  the  boys  had  to  take  you  in,  but 
you   and   your   bosses   are   safe   and   we   won't 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout       9 

keep    you    long.      The    day    of   the    Lord   is    at 
hand." 

There  was  a  grim  murmur  of  approval  from 
the  other  men.  The  Lord's  day,  as  Sunday  is 
sometimes  called,  was  at  hand,  for  it  was  then 
the  evening  of  Saturday,  October  15,  1859.  ^^t 
that  was  not  what  the  speaker  meant.  He  was 
not  what  his  followers  called  him.  Captain 
Smith.  He  was  John  Brown,  of  North  Elba, 
New  York,  of  Kansas  ("bleeding  Kansas"  it 
was  called  then,  when  slaveholders  from  Mis- 
souri and  freedom-lovers  under  John  Brown  had 
turned  it  into  a  battlefield),  and  he  was  soon  to 
be  John  Brown  of  Harper's  Ferry,  Virginia, 
first  martyr  in  the  cause  of  Freedom  on  Vir- 
ginian soil.  To  him  "  the  day  of  the  Lord  "  was 
the  day  when  he  was  to  attack  slavery  in  its 
birthplace,  the  Old  Dominion,  and  that  attack 
had  been  set  by  him  for  Sunday,  October  16. 
His  plan  was  to  seize  Harper's  Ferry,  where 
there  was  a  United  States  arsenal,  arm  the 
slaves  he  thought  would  come  to  his  standard 
from  all  Virginia,   and  so  compass   the   fall  of 


10     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

the  Slave  Power.  A  wild  plan,  an  impossible 
plan,  the  plan  of  an  almost  crazy  fanatic,  and  a 
splendid  dream,  a  dream  for  the  sake  of  which 
he  was  glad  to  give  his  heroic  life. 

He  had  rented  this  Maryland  farm  in  July^, 
giving  his  name  as  Smith  and  saying  he  expected 
to  breed  horses.  By  twos  and  threes  his  fol- 
lowers had  joined  him  in  this  solitary  spot,  until 
now  there  were  twenty-one  of  them.  The  few 
folk  scattered  through  the  countryside  had  be- 
gun to  be  suspicious  of  this  strange  gathering  of 
men.  All  sorts  of  wild  stories  circulated,  though 
none  was  as  wild  as  the  truth.  The  men  them- 
selves were  tense  under  the  strain  of  the  long 
wait.  They  feared  discovery  and  attack.  For 
the  three  days  before  ''  the  day  of  the  Lord  " 
they  had  patrolled  the  one  road,  looking  out 
for  soldiers  or  for  spies.  Tom  and  his  father  had 
been  their  sole  captives. 

John  Brown  was  one  of  Nature's  noblemen 
and  among  his  friends  in  Massachusetts  and 
New  York  were  some  of  the  foremost  men  of 
their  time,  so  he  had  learned  to  know  a  real  man 


JuHN    BruWN 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     ii 

when  he  met  one.  He  soon  found  out  that  Mr. 
Strong  was  a  real  man.  He  told  him  of  his 
plans,  and  urged  him  to  join  in  the  projected 
foray  on  Harper's  Ferry.  But  when  Mr.  Strong 
refused  and  tried  to  show  him  how  mad  his 
project  was,  the  fires  of  the  fanatic  blazed  within 
him. 

"  Did  not  Joshua  bring  down  the  walls  of 
Jericho  with  a  ram's  horn?  "  he  shouted.  ''  And 
with  twenty  armed  men  cannot  I  pull  down  the 
walls  of  the  citadel  of  Slavery?  Are  you  a  true 
man  or  not?  Will  you  join  me  or  not?  Answer 
me  yes  or  no." 

No,"  was  the  response,  quiet  but  firm. 

You  shall  join  me;  you  and  your  boy," 
thundered  the  crusader,  hammering  the  table 
with  his  mighty  fist.  "  Here,  Jim,  put  these 
people  under  guard  and  keep  them  until  we 
start." 

Tom  and  his  father  were  well-treated,  but  they 
were  kept  under  guard  until  the  next  night 
and  were   then   taken   along  by  John   Brown's 


t( 


({ 


12     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  army,"  which  trudged  off  into  the  darkness 
afoot,  while  Billy-boy  and  Jennie  and  the  other 
horses  in  the  corral  whinnied  uneasily,  sensing, 
as  animals  do,  the  stir  of  a  departure  which  is  to 
leave  them  behind.  In  the  center  of  the  little 
column  the  two  captives  marched  the  five  miles 
to  Harper's  Ferry  and  started  across  the  bridge 
that  led  to  that  tiny  town. 

A  brave  man,  one  Patrick  Hoggins,  was  night- 
watchman  of  the  bridge.  He  heard  the  tramp- 
ling of  many  feet  upon  the  plank-flooring.  He 
hurried  towards  the  strange  sound. 

'*  Halt!  "  shouted  somebody  in  the  column. 

"  Now  I  didn't  know  what  '  halt '  mint  then," 
Patrick  testified  afterwards,  "  anny  more  than  a 
hog  knows  about  a  holiday." 

But  he  had  seen  armed  men  and  he  turned 
to  run  and  give  an  alarm.  A  bullet  was  swifter 
than  he,  but  not  swifter  than  his  voice.  He 
fell,  but  his  shouts  had  alarmed  the  town. 
There  were  two  or  three  watchmen  at  the 
arsenal.  They  came  forward,  only  to  be  made 
prisoners.      The    few    citizens    who    had    been 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     13 

aroused  could  do  nothing.     The  "  army  "  seized 
the  arsenal  without  difficulty. 

Five  miles  from  Harper's  Ferry  lived  Col. 
Lewis  W.  Washington,  gentleman-farmer  and 
slave-owner,  great-grand-nephew  of  another 
gentleman-farmer  and  slave-owner,  George 
Washington.  At  midnight,  Colonel  Washing- 
ton was  awakened  by  a  blow  upon  his  bedroom 
door.  It  swung  open  and  the  light  of  a  burning 
torch  showed  the  astonished  Southerner  four 
armed  men,  one  of  them  a  negro,  who  bade  him 
rise  and  dress.  They  were  a  patrol  sent  out  by 
Brown.    Their  leader,  Stevens,  asked: 

''  Haven't  you  a  pistol  Lafayette  gave  George 
Washington  and  a  sword  Frederick  the  Great 
sent  him?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Where  are  they?" 

"  Downstairs." 

His  four  captors  tramped  downstairs  with 
him.     Pistol  and  sword  were  found. 

I'll   take   the   pistol,"   said   Stevens.      "  You 


H    T»1 


hand  the  sword  to  this  negro." 


14     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

John  Brown  wore  this  sword  during  the  fight- 
ing that  followed.  It  is  now  in  the  possession 
of  the  State  of  New  York.  While  its  being  sent 
George  Washington  by  Frederick  the  Great  is 
doubtful — the  story  runs  that  the  Prussian  king 
sent  with  it  a  message  "  From  the  oldest  gen- 
eral to  the  best  general  " — its  being  surrendered 
by  Lewis  Washington  to  the  negro  is  true. 

Lewus  was  then  on  the  stafif  of  the  Governor 
of  Virginia,  and  had  acquired  in  this  way  his 
title  of  Colonel.  He  was  put  into  his  own  car- 
riage. His  slaves,  few  in  number,  were  bundled 
into  a  four-horse  farm-wagon.  They  were  told 
to  come  and  fight  for  their  freedom.  Too  scared 
to  resist,  they  came  as  they  were  bidden  to  do, 
but  they  did  no  fighting.  At  Harper's  Ferry 
they  and  their  fellow-slaves,  seized  at  a  neigh- 
boring plantation,  escaped  back  to  slavery  at  the 
first  possible  moment.  Not  a  single  negro  vol- 
untarily joined  John  Brown.  He  had  expected 
a  widespread  slave  insurrection.  There  was 
nothing  of  the  sort.  By  Monday  morning  he 
knew  he  had  failed,  failed  utterly. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     15 

Before  Monday's  sun  set,  Harper's  Ferry  was 
full  of  soldiers,  United  States  regulars  and  State 
militia.  Brown,  his  men  and  his  white  captives, 
eleven  of  the  latter,  were  shut  up  in  the  fire- 
engine  house  of  the  armory.  The  militia  refused 
to  charge  the  engine-house,  saying  that  this 
might  cost  the  captives  their  lives.  Many  of 
them  were  drunk;  all  of  them  were  undisci- 
plined; their  commander  did  not  know  how  to 
command.  The  situation  changed  with  the  ar- 
rival of  the  United  States  Marines  led  by 
Lieut.-Col.  Robert  E.  Lee,  afterwards  the  fa- 
mous chief  of  the  army  of  the  Confederate 
States. 

By  this  time  Tom  was  beginning  to  think  he 
had  had  enough  adventure.  He  had  enjoyed 
that  silent  tramp  through  the  darkness  beside 
his  father.  He  had  enjoyed  it  the  more  because 
they  were  both  prisoners-of-war.  Being  a  pris- 
oner was  an  amazingly  thrilling  thing.  He  was 
sorry  when  brave  Patrick  Hoggins  was  shot  and 
glad  to  know  the  wound  was  slight,  but  sharing 
in  the  skirmish,  even  in  the  humble  capacity  of 


i6     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

a  captive,  had  excited  the  boy  immensely.  Now 
that  there  was  almost  constant  firing  back  and 
forth,  when  two  or  three  wounded  men  were 
lying  on  the  floor,  and  when  his  father  and  he 
and  Colonel  Washington  were  perforce  risking 
their  lives  in  the  engine-house,  with  nothing  to 
gain  and  everything  to  lose,  and  when  scanty 
sleep  and  little  food  had  tired  out  even  his  stout 
little  body,  Tom  felt  quite  ready  to  go  home  and 
have  his  adored  mother  "  mother "  him.  His 
father  saw  the  homesickness  in  his  eyes. 

"  Steady,  my  son,"  said  Mr.  Strong.  "  This 
won't  last  long.  No  stray  bullet  is  apt  to  reach 
this  corner,  where  Captain  Brown  has  put  us. 
The  only  other  danger  is  when  the  regulars  rush 
in  here,  but  unless  they  mistake  us  for  the 
raiders,  there'll  be  no  harm  done  then.  Steady." 
He  looked  through  a  bullet-hole  in  the  boarded- 
up  window  and  added:  "Here  comes  a  flag  of 
truce.     Listen." 

The  scattering  fire  died  away.  The  hush  was 
broken  by  a  commanding  voice,  demanding  sur- 
render. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     17 

"  There  will  be  no  surrender,"  quoth  grim 
John  Brown. 

At  dawn  of  Tuesday,  two  files  of  United 
States  Marines,  using  a  long  ladder  as  a  batter- 
ing ram,   attacked   the   door      It  broke   at   the 


THE  ATTACK  ON  THE  ENGINE-HOUSE 

second  blow.  The  marines  poured  in,  shooting 
and  striking.  The  battle  was  over.  John  Brown, 
wounded  and  beaten  to  the  floor,  lay  there 
among  his  men.  The  captives  were  free.  Their 
captors  had  changed  places  with  them. 

Colonel    Washington    took    Mr.    Strong    and 
Tom  home  with  him,  for  a  rest  after  the  strain 


i8     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

of  the  captivity.  He  was  much  interested  when 
he  found  out  that  Tom's  great-grandfather  had 
visited  General  Washington  at  Mount  Vernon 
and  Tom  was  intensely  interested  in  seeing  the 
home  and  home  life  of  a  rich  Southern  planter. 
The  Colonel  asked  his  guests  to  stay  until  after 
the  trial  of  their  recent  jailer.  They  did  so  and 
Mr.  Strong,  after  some  hesitation,  decided  to 
take  Tom  to  the  trial  and  afterwards  to  the  final 
scene  of  all.  He  wrote  to  his  wife:  "Life  is 
rich,  my  dear,  in  proportion  to  the  number  of 
our  experiences  and  their  depth.  Ordinarily,  I 
would  not  dream  of  taking  Tom  to  see  a  criminal 
hung.  But  John  Brown  is  no  ordinary  criminal. 
He  is  wrong,  but  he  is  heroic.  He  faces  his  fate 
— for  of  course  they  will  hang  him — like  a 
Roman.  I  think  it  will  do  Tom  good  to  see  a 
hero  die." 

Whether  or  no  his  father  was  right,  Tom  was 
given  these  experiences.  He  sat  beside  his 
father  and  Colonel  Washington  at  the  trial.  He 
heard  them  testify.  He  noted  the  angry  stir  of 
the   mob   in   the   court-room   when   Mr.    Strong 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout      19 

made  no  secret  of  his  admiration  for  the  great 
criminal. 

Robert  E.  Lee,  who  captured  Brown,  said: 
"  I  am  glad  we  did  not  have  to  kill  him,  for  I 
believe  he  is  an  honest,  conscientious  old  man." 
Virginia,  Lee's  State,  thought  she  did  have  to 
kill  this  invader  of  her  soil  and  disturber  of  her 
slaves. 

November  2,  John  Brown  was  sentenced  to  be 
hung  December  2.  The  next  day  he  added  this 
postscript  to  a  letter  he  had  already  written  to 
his  wife  and  children : 

*'  P.S.  Yesterday  Nov.  2d  I  was  sentenced  to 
be  hanged  on  Decem  2d  next.  Do  not  grieve  on 
my  account.  I  am  still  quite  cheerful.  God 
bless  you  all." 

Northern  friends  offered  to  try  to  help  him  to 
break  jail.  He  put  aside  the  offer  with  the  calm 
statement:  ''I  am  fully  persuaded  that  I  am 
worth  inconceivably  more  to  hang  than  for  any 
other  purpose." 

December  2,  John  Brown  started  on  his  last 


20     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

journey.  He  sat  upon  his  coffin  in  a  wagon  and 
as  the  two  horses  paced  slowly  from  jail  to  gal- 
lows, he  looked  far  afield,  over  river  and  valley 
and  hill,  and  said :  ''  This  is  a  beautiful  country." 
He  was  sure  he  was  upon  the  threshold  of  a  far 
more  beautiful  country.  The  gallows  were 
guarded  by  a  militia  company  from  Richmond, 
Virginia.  In  its  ranks,  rifle  on  shoulder,  stood 
Wilkes  Booth,  a  dark  and  sinister  figure,  who 
was  to  win  eternal  infamy  by  assassinating 
Abraham  Lincoln.  Beside  the  militia  was  a  trim 
lot  of  cadets,  the  fine  boys  of  the  Virginia  Mili- 
tary Institute.  With  them  was  their  professor, 
Thomas  J.  Jackson,  "  Stonewall  "  Jackson,  one 
of  the  heroic  figures  upon  the  Southern  side  of 
our  Civil  War. 

When  the  end  came,  Stonewall  Jackson's  lips 
moved  with  a  prayer  for  John  Brown's  soul; 
Colonel  Washington's  and  Mr.  Strong's  eyes 
were  wet;  and  Tom  Strong  sobbed  aloud. 
Albany  fired  a  hundred  guns  in  John  Brown's 
honor  as  he  hung  from  the  gallows.  In  1859 
United    States    troops    captured    him    that    he 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     21 

might  die.  In  1899  United  States  troops  fired 
a  volley  of  honor  over  his  grave  in  North  Elba 
that  the  memory  of  him  might  live.  Victor 
Hugo  called  him  "  an  apostle  and  a  hero." 
Emerson  dubbed  him  "  saint."  Oswald  Gar- 
rison Villard  closes  his  fine  biography  of  John 
Brown  with  these  words:  ''Wherever  there  is 
battling  against  injustice  and  oppression,  the 
Charlestown  gallows  that  became  a  cross  will 
help  men  to  live  and  die." 


CHAPTER  II 

Our  War  with  Mexico — Kit  Carson  and  His 
Lawyer,  Abe  Lincoln — Tom  Goes  to  Lin- 
coln's Inauguration — S.  F.  B.  ^Iorse,  In- 
ventor OF  the  TeldltRaph — Tom  Back  in 
Washington. 

T  N  1846,  Mr.  Strong,  long  enough  out  of  Yale 
to  have  begun  TDUsiness  and  to  have  married, 
had  heard  his  country's  call  and  had  helped  her 
fight  her  unjust  war  with  Mexico.  General 
Grant,  who  saw  his  first  fighting  in  this  war  and 
who  fought  well,  says  of  it  in  his  Memoirs  that 
it  was  ''  one  of  the  most  unjust  ever  waged  by 
a  stronger  against  a  weaker  nation." 

Much  more  important  things  were  happening 
here  then  than  the  Mexican  War.  In  1846 
Elias  Howe  invented  the  sewing-machine.  In 
1847  Robert  Hoe  invented  the  rotary  printing 
press.  Great  inventions  like  these  are  the  real 
milestones  of  the  path  of  progress. 

22 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     23 

Mr,  Strong  served  as  a  private  in  the  ranks 
throughout  the  war.  He  refused  a  commission 
offered  him  for  gallantry  in  action  because  he 
knev^  he  did  not  know  enough  then  to  command 
men.  It  is  a  rare  man  who  knows  that  he  does 
not  know.  His  regiment  was  mustered  out  of 
service  at  the  end  of  the  war  in  New  Orleans. 
The  young  soldier  decided  to  go  home  by  way 
of  St.  Louis  because  of  his  memories  of  that  old 
town  in  the  days  when  he  had  followed  Fremont. 
He  went  again  to  the  Planters'  Hotel  and  there 
by  lucky  accident  he  met  again  the  famous 
frontiersman  Kit  Carson.  Carson  was  away 
from  the  plains  he  loved  because  of  a  lawsuit. 
A  sharp  speculator  was  trying  to  take  away 
from  him  some  land  he  had  bought  years  ago 
near  the  town,  which  the  growth  of  the  town 
had  now  made  quite  valuable.  Carson  was 
heartily  glad  to  see  his  "  Tom-boy  "  once  more. 
He  insisted  upon  his  staying  several  days,  took 
him  to  court  to  hear  the  trial,  and  introduced 
him  to  his  lawyer,  a  tall,  gaunt,  slab-sided, 
slouching,    plain    person    from    the    neighboring 


24     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

State  of  Illinois.  Everybody  who  knew  him 
called  him  ''  Abe."  His  last  name  was 
Lincoln. 

"  I'd  heard  so  much  of  Abe  Lincoln,"  said 
Carson,  ''  that  when  this  speculator  who's  trying 
to  do  me  hired  all  the  big  lawyers  in  St.  Louis, 
I  just  went  over  to  Springfield,  Illinois,  to  get 
Abe.  When  I  saw  him  I  rather  hesitated  about 
hiring  such  a  looking  skeesicks,  but  when  I 
came  to  talk  with  him,  he  did  the  hesitating.  I 
asked  him  what  he'd  charge  for  defending  a 
land-suit  in  St.  Louis.  He  told  me.  I  sez :  *  All 
right.    You're  hired.    You're  my  lawyer/ 

"  '  Wait  a  bit,'  sez  he. 

"  '  What  for?  '  sez  I.    '  I'll  pay  what  you  said.' 

"  *  That  ain't  all,'  sez  he.  '  Before  I  take  your 
money,  Kit,  I've  got  to  know  your  side  of  the 
case  is  the  right  side/ 

" '  What  difiPerence  does  that  make  to  a 
lawyer?  '  sez  I. 

" '  It  makes  a  heap  o'  difference  to  this 
lawyer,'  sez  he.  *  You've  got  to  prove  your  case 
to  me  before  I'll  try  to  prove  it  to  the  court.    If 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     25 

you  ain't  in  the  right,  Abe  Lincoln  won't  be  your 
lawyer.' 

"  Darned  if  he  didn't  make  me  prove  I  was  in 
the  right,  too,  before  he'd  touch  my  money.  No 
wonder  they  call  him  '  Honest  Abe.'  " 

It  took  Lincoln  a  couple  of  days  to  win  Kit 
Carson's  suit.  During  those  two  days  young 
Strong  saw  much  of  him  and  came  to  admire 
the  sterling  qualities  of  the  man.  Lincoln,  too, 
liked  this  young  college-bred  fellow  from  the 
East,  unaffected,  well-mannered,  friendly,  and 
gay.  There  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship 
between  the  Westerner  and  the  Easterner. 
Thereafter  they  wrote  each  other  occasionally. 
When  Lincoln  served,  his  one  brief  term  in 
Congress,  Mr.  Strong  spent  a  week  with  him  in 
Washington  and  asked  him  (but  in  vain)  to  visit 
him  in  New  York. 

So,  when  this  new  giant  came  out  of  the 
West  and  Illinois  gave  her  greatest  son  to  the 
country,  as  its  President,  Mr.  Strong  went  to 
Washington  to  see  him  inaugurated  and  took 
with  him  his  boy  Tom,  as  his  father  had  taken 


26     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

him  in  1829  to  Andrew  Jackson's  inaugura- 
tion. 

Washington  was  still  a  great  shabby  village, 
not  much  more  attractive  March  4,  1861,  than 
it  was  March  4,  1829.  The  crowds  at  the  two 
inaugurations  were  much  alike.  In  both  cases 
the  favorite  son  of  the  West  had  won  at  the 
polls.  In  both  cases  the  West  swamped  Wash- 
ington. But  in  1829  there  was  jubilant  victory 
in  the  air.  In  1861  there  was  somber  anxiety. 
Seven  Southern  States  had  "  seceded  "  and  had 
formed  another  government.  Other  States 
were  upon  the  brink  of  secession.  Was  the 
great  democratic  experiment  of  the  world  about 
to  end  in  failure?  Would  there  be  civil  war? 
What  was  this  unknown  man  out  of  the  West 
going  to  do?     Could  he  do  anything? 

Mr.  Strong  and  Tom,  with  a  few  thousand 
other  people,  went  to  the  reception  at  the  White 
House  on  the  afternoon  of  March  fourth. 
President  Lincoln  was  laboriously  shaking 
hands  with  everybody  in  the  long  line.  Almost 
every  one  of  them  seemed  to  be  asking  him  for 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     27 

something.  He  was  weary  long  before  Tom 
and  his  father  reached  him,  but  his  face  bright- 
ened as  he  saw  them.  A  boy  always  meant  a 
great  deal  to  Abraham  Lincoln.  "  There  may 
be  so  much  in  a  boy,"  he  used  to  say.  He 
greeted  the  two  warmly. 

''Howdy,  Strong?  Glad  to  see  you.  This 
your  boy?     Howdy,  sonny?" 

Tom  did  not  enjoy  being  called  ''  sonny " 
much  more  than  he  had  enjoyed  being  called 
''  bub,"  but  he  was  glad  to  have  this  big  man 
with  a  woman's  smile  call  him  anything.  He 
wrung  the  President's  offered  hand,  stammered 
something  shyly,  and  was  passing  on  with  his 
father,  when  Lincoln  said : 

*'  Hold  on  a  minute.  Strong.  You  haven't 
asked  me  for  anything." 

''  I've  nothing  to  ask  for,  Mr.  President.  I'm 
not  here  to  beg  for  an  office." 

"  Good  gracious !  You're  the  only  man  in 
Washington  of  that  kind,  I  believe.  Come  to 
see  me  tomorrow  morning,  will  you?" 

"  Most  gladly,  sir." 


28     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

The  impatient  man  behind  them  pushed  them 
on.  They  heard  him  begin  to  plead :  "  Say,  Abe, 
you  know  I  carried  Mattoon  for  you;  I'd  hke  to 
be  Minister  to  England." 

Boys  and  girls  always  appealed  to  the  Presi- 
dent's heart.  When  there  were  talks  of  vital 
import  in  his  office,  little  Tad  Lincoln  often  sat 
upon  his  father's  knee.  At  a  White  House  re- 
ception, Charles  A.  Dana  once  put  his  little  girl 
in  a  corner,  whence  she  saw  the  show.  The 
father  tells  the  story.  When  the  reception  was 
over,  he  said  to  Lincoln :  ''  *  I  have  a  little  girl 
here  who  wants  to  shake  hands  with  you.'  He 
went  over  to  her  and  took  her  up  and  kissed 
her  and  talked  to  her.  She  will  never  for- 
get it  if  she  lives  to  be  a  thousand  years 
old." 

The  next  morning  Tom  followed  his  father 
into  a  room  on  the  second  floor  of  the  White 
House.  Lincoln  sat  at  a  flat-topped  desk,  piled 
high  with  papers.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
with    shabby   black    trousers,    coarse    stockings. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     29 

and  worn  slippers.  He  stretched  out  his  long 
legs,  swung  his  long  arms  behind  his  head,  and 
came  straight  to  the  point. 

''  Strong,  I'm  going  to  need  you.  Your  coun- 
try is  going  to  need  you.  I  want  you  to  go 
straight  home  and  fix  up  your  business  affairs 
so  you  can  come  whenever  I  call  you.  Will  you 
do  it?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

President  and  citizen  rose  and  shook  hands 
upon  it.  The  citizen  was  about  to  go  when 
Tom,  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth,  but  with  a 
fine  resolve  in  his  heart,  suddenly  said: 

"Oh,  Father!     Oh,  Mr.  President " 

Then  he  stopped  short,  too  shy  to  speak,  but 
Lincoln  stooped  down  to  him,  patted  his  young 
head  and  said  with  infinite  kindness  in  his 
tone: 

"What  is  it,  Tom?     Tell  me." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  President,  I'm  only  a  boy,  but  can't 
I  do  something  for  my  country,  right  now? 
Can't  I  stay  here?  Father  will  let  me,  won't 
you.  Father?  " 


30     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

^Ir.  Strong  shook  his  head.  The  boy's  face 
fell.  It  brightened  again  when  Lincoln  told 
him : 

"  When  I  send  for  your  father,  I'll  send  for 
you,  Tom." 

With  that  promise  ringing  in  his  ears,  Tom 
went  home  to  New  York  City.  Home  was  a 
fine  brick  house  at  the  northeast  corner  of 
Washington  Place  and  Greene  Street,  The 
house  was  a  twin  brother  of  those  that  still 
stand  on  the  north  side  of  Washington  Square. 
Tom  had  been  born  in  it.  Not  long  after  his 
birth,  his  parents  had  given  a  notable  dinner  in 
it  to  a  notable  man.  Tom  had  been  present  at 
the  dinner,  and  he  remembered  nothing  about 
it.  As  he  was  at  the  table  but  a  few  minutes, 
in  the  arms  of  his  nurse,  and  less  than  a  year 
old,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  did  not  remember 
it.  His  proud  young  mother  had  exhibited  him 
to  a  group  of  money  magnates,  gathered  at  Mr. 
Strong's  shining  mahogany  table  for  dinner,  at 
the  fashionable  hour  of  three  p.m.,  to  see 
another  young  thing,  almost  as  young  as  Tom. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     31 

This  other  young  thing  was  the  telegraph,  just 
invented  by  Samuel  F.  B.  ^lorse,  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  the  City  of  New  York,  which  then 
filled  half  of  the  eastern  boundary  of  Washing- 
ton Square. 

While  Tom  waited  in  the  old  brick  house  and 
played  in  Washington  Square,  history  was  mak- 
ing itself.  Pope  Walker,  first  Secretary  of  War 
of  the  Confederate  States,  sitting  in  his  office  at 
the  Alabama  Statehouse  at  Montgomery,  the 
first  Confederate  capital,  said:  ''It  is  time  to 
sprinkle  some  blood  in  the  face  of  the  people." 
So  he  telegraphed  the  fateful  order  to  fire  on 
Fort  Sumter,  held  by  United  States  troops  in 
Charleston  harbor.  Sumter  fell.  Lincoln  called 
for  75,000  volunteers.  Virginia,  the  famous  Old 
Dominion,  ''  the  ^Mother  of  Presidents  " — Wash- 
ington, Jefferson,  Madison,  and  ]vIonroe  were 
Virginians — seceded.  The  war  between  the 
States  began. 

IMr.  Strong  found  in  his  mail  one  day  this 
letter: 


32     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  The  Executive  Mansion, 
Washington,  April  17,  1861. 

Sir: 

The  President  bids  me  say  that  he  would  hke 
to  have  you  come  to  Washington  at  once  and 
bring  your  son  Tom  with  you. 

Respectfully, 

John  Hay, 
Assistant  Private  Secretary.'* 

Tom  and  his  father  started  at  once,  as  the 
President  bade  them.  At  Jersey  City,  they 
found  the  train  they  had  expected  to  take  had 
been  pre-empted  by  the  Sixth  Massachusetts,  a 
crack  militia  regiment  of  the  Old  Bay  State, 
which  was  hurrying  to  Washington  in  the  hope 
of  getting  there  before  the  rebels  did.  The 
cars  were  crammed  with  soldiers.  A  sentry 
stood  at  every  door.  No  civilian  need  apply  for 
passage.  However,  a  civilian  with  a  letter 
from  Lincoln's  secretary  bidding  him  also  hurry 
to  Washington  was  in  a  class  by  himself.  With 
the  help  of  an  officer,  the  father  and  son  ran  the 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     33 

blockade  of  bayonets  and  started  southward,  the 
only  civilians  upon  the  train.  It  was  packed  to 
suffocation  with  soldiers.  Mr.  Strong  sat  with 
the  regimental  officers,  but  he  let  Tom  roam  at 
will  from  car  to  car.  How  the  boy  enjoyed  it. 
The  shining  gun-barrels  fascinated  him.  He 
joined  a  group  of  merry  men,  who  hailed  him 
with  a  shout: 

"  Here's  the  youngest  recruit  of  all." 

"Are  you  really  going  to  shoot  rebels?" 
asked  Tom. 

"  If  we  must,"  said  Jack  Saltonstall,  breaking 
the  silence  the  question  brought,  ''  but  I  hope  it 
won't  come  to  that." 

"  The  war  will  be  over  in  three  months," 
Gordon  Abbott  prophesied. 

"  Pooh,  it  will  never  begin, — and  I'm  sorry  for 
that,"  said  Jim  Casey,  "  I'd  like  to  have  some 
real  fighting." 

Within  about  three  hours,  Jim  Casey  was  to 
see  fighting  and  was  to  die  for  his  country.  The 
beginning  of  bloodshed  in  our  Civil  War  was  in 
the  streets  of  Baltimore  on  April  19,  1861,  just 


34     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

eighty-six  years  to  a  day  from  the  beginning  of 
bloodshed  in  our  Revolution  on  Lexington  Com- 
mon. Massachusetts  and  British  blood  in  1775; 
Massachusetts  and  Alaryland  blood  in  1861. 

When  the  long  train  stopped  at  the  wooden 
car-shed  which  was  then  the  Baltimore  station, 
the  regiment  left  the  cars,  fell  into  line  and 
started  to  march  the  mile  or  so  of  cobblestone 
streets  to  the  other  station  where  the  train  for 
Washington  awaited  it.  The  line  of  march  was 
through  as  bad  a  slum  as  an  American  city 
could  then  show.  Grog-shops  swarmed  in  it  and 
about  every  grog-shop  swarmed  the  toughs  of 
Baltimore.  They  were  known  locally  as  ''  plug- 
uglies."  Like  the  New  York  "  Bowery  boys  " 
of  that  time,  they  affected  a  sort  of  uniform, 
black  dress  trousers  thrust  into  boot-tops  and 
red  flannel  shirts.  Far  too  poor  to  own  slaves 
themselves,  they  had  gathered  here  to  fight  the 
slave-owners'  battles,  to  keep  the  ^Massachusetts 
troops  from  "  polluting  the  soil  of  ^laryland,"  as 
their  leaders  put  it,  really  to  keep  them  from 
saving  Washington. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     35 

A  roar  of  jeers  and  taunts  and  insults  hailed 
the  head  of  the  marching  column.  Tom  was 
startled  by  it.  He  turned  to  his  father.  The 
two  were  walking  side  by  side,  in  the  center  of 
the  column,  between  two  companies  of  the 
militia.  He  found  his  father  had  already  turned 
to  him. 

"  Keep  close  to  me,  Tom,"  said  ^Ir.  Strong. 

The  storm  of  words  that  beat  upon  them  in- 
creased. At  the  next  corner,  stones  took  the 
place  of  words.  The  mob  surged  alongside  the 
soldiers,  swearing,  stoning,  striking,  finally  stab- 
bing and  shooting.  The  Sixth  ^Massachusetts 
showed  admirable  self-restraint,  which  the 
"  plug-uglies  "  thought  was  cowardice.  They 
pressed  closer.  With  a  mighty  rush,  five  thou- 
sand rioters  broke  the  line  of  the  thousand 
troops.  The  latter  were  forced  into  small 
groups,  many  of  them  without  an  officer.  Each 
group  had  to  act  for  itself.  Tom  and  his  father 
found  themselves  part  of  a  tiny  force  of  about 
twenty  men,  beset  upon  every  side  by  des- 
peradoes now  mad  with  liquor  and  with  the  lust 


36     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

of  killing.  Jack  Saltonstall  took  command  by 
common  consent.  Calmly  he  faced  hundreds  of 
rioters. 

"  Forward,  march  !  " 

As  he  uttered  the  words,  he  pitched  forward, 
shot  through  the  chest.  A  giant  ''  plug-ugly  " 
bellowed  with  triumph  over  his  successful  shot, 
yelled  "kill  'em  all!"  and  led  the  mob  upon 
them.  But  Mr.  Strong  had  snatched  Salton- 
stall's  gun  as  it  fell  from  his  nerveless  hands, 
had  leveled  and  aimed  it,  and  had  shouted 
"fire!"  to  willing  ears.  A  score  of  guns  rang 
out.  The  mob-leader  whirled  about  and 
dropped.  Half-a-dozen  other  "  plug-uglies  "  lay 
about  him.  This  section  of  the  mob  broke  and 
ran.  Some  of  them  fired  as  they  ran,  and  Jim 
Casey's  life  went  out  of  him. 

"  Take  this  gun,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Strong. 

The  boy  took  it,  reloading  it  as  he  marched, 
while  his  sturdy  father  lifted  the  wounded 
Saltonstall  from  the  stony  street  and  staggered 
forward  with  the  body  in  his  arms.  Casey  and 
two  other  men  were  dead.     Their  bodies  had  to 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     37 

be  left  to  the  fury  of  the  mob.  Saltonstall  Hved 
to  fight  to  the  end.  As  the  survivors  of  the 
twenty  pressed  forward,  the  mob  behind  fol- 
lowed them  up.  Bullets  whizzed  unpleasantly 
near.  Twice,  at  Mr.  Strong's  command,  the 
men  faced  about  and  fired  a  volley.  In  both 
these  volleys,  Tom's  gun  played  its  part.  He 
had  hunted  before,  but  never  such  big  game  as 
men.  The  joy  of  battle  possessed  him.  Since 
it  was  apparently  a  case  of  "  kill  or  be  killed," 
he  shot  to  kill.  Whether  he  did  kill,  he  never 
knew.  The  tv/o  volleys  checked  two  threaten- 
ing rushes  of  the  rioters  and  enabled  Mr.  Strong 
to  bring  what  was  left  of  the  gallant  little  band 
safely  to  the  railroad  station.  An  hour  later  the 
Sixth  Massachusetts  was  in  Washington.  Dur- 
ing that  hour  Tom  had  been  violently  sick  upon 
the  train.  He  was  new  to  this  trade  of  man- 
killing. 

At  Washington,  once  vacant  spaces  were  soon 
filled  with  camps.  Soldiers  poured  in  on  every 
train.  Orderlies  were  galloping  about.  Artil- 
lery   surrounded    the    Capitol.      And    from    its 


38     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

dome  Tom  saw  a  Confederate  flag,  the  Stars- 
and-Bars,  flying  defiantly  in  nearby  Alexandria. 
Those  were  dark  days.  There  were  Confed- 
erate forces  within  a  few  miles  of  the  White 
House.  Sumter  surrendered  April  15th.  Vir- 
ginia seceded  on  the  17th.  Harper's  Ferry  fell 
into  Southern  hands  on  the  i8th.  The  Sixth 
Massachusetts  had  fought  its  way  through  Bal- 
timore on  the  19th.  Robert  E.  Lee  resigned  his 
commission  in  our  army  on  the  20th  and  left 
Arlington  for  Richmond,  taking  with  him  a  long 
■  train  of  army  and  navy  oflicers  whose  loyal  sup- 
port, now  lost  forever,  had  seemed  a  national 
necessity.  Lincoln  spent  many  an  hour  in  his 
private  office,  searching  with  a  telescope  the 
reaches  of  the  Potomac,  over  which  the  troop- 
laden  transports  were  expected.  Once,  when  he 
thought  he  was  alone,  John  Hay  heard  him  call 
out  "  with  irrepressible  anguish  "  :  ''  Why  don't 
they  come?  Why  don't  they  come?"  In  pub- 
lic he  gave  no  sign  of  the  anxiety  that  was  eat- 
ing up  his  heart.  He  had  the  nerve  to  jest 
about  it.    The  Sixth  Massachusetts,  the  Seventh 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     39 

New  York,  and  a  Rhode  Island  detachment  had 
all  hurried  to  save  Washington  from  the  capture 
that  threatened.  When  the  Massachusetts  men 
won  the  race  and  marched  proudly  by  the  White 
House,  Lincoln  said  to  some  of  their  officers: 
''  I  begin  to  believe  there  is  no  North.  The  Sev- 
enth Regiment  is  a  myth.  Rhode  Island  is 
another.  You  are  the  only  real  thing."  They 
were  very  real,  those  men  of  Massachusetts,  and 
they  were  the  vanguard  of  the  real  army  that 
was  to  be. 


CHAPTER  III 

Charles  Fraxcis  Adams — Mr.  Strong  Goes  to 
Russia — Tom  Goes  to  Live  ix  the  White 
House — Bull  Rux — '*  Stoxewall  "  Jackson 
— Geo.  B.  McClellax — Tom  Stroxg,  Secoxd 
Lieutexaxt,  U.   S.  a. — The  Battle  of  the 

"  MeRRIMAC  "   AXD  THE   ''  MoXITOR." 

A  FEW  days  passed  before  the  President  had 
time  to  see  ]Mr.  Strong  and  Tom.  When 
they  were  finally  ushered  into  his  working-room, 
they  found  there,  already  interviewing  Lincoln, 
the  hawk-nosed  and  hawk-eyed  Secretary  of 
State,  William  H.  Seward  of  New  York,  scholar, 
statesman,  and  gentleman,  and  a  short,  grizzled 
man,  the  worthy  inheritor  of  a  great  tradition. 
He  was  Charles  Francis  Adams  of  Boston,  son 
and  grandson  of  two  Presidents  of  the  United 
States.  He  had  been  appointed  ^linister  to 
England,  just  then  the  most  important  foreign 

40 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     41 

appointment  in  the  world.  What  England  was 
to  do  or  not  do  might  spell  victory  or  defeat  for 
the  Union,  IMr.  Adams  had  come  to  receive  his 
final  instructions  for  his  all-important  work. 
And  this  is  what  happened. 

Shabby  and  uncouth,  Lincoln  faced  his  two 
well-dressed  visitors,  nodding  casually  to  the 
two  New  Yorkers  as  they  entered  at  what 
should  have  been  a  great  moment. 

"  I  came  to  thank  you  for  my  appointment," 
said  Adams,  ''  and  to  ask  you " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  replied  Lincoln,  "  thank 
Seward.  He's  the  man  that  put  you  in."  He 
stretched  out  his  legs  and  arms,  and  sighed  a 
deep  sigh  of  relief.  "  By  the  way,  Governor," 
he  added,  turning  to  Seward,  ''  I've  this  morn- 
ing decided  that  Chicago  post-ofifice  appoint- 
ment.    Well,  good-by." 

And  that  was  all  the  instruction  the  IMinister 
to  Great  Britain  had  from  the  President  of  the 
United  States.  Even  In  those  supreme  days,  the 
rush  of  office-seekers,  the  struggle  for  the  spoils, 
the  mad  looting  of  the  public  offices  for  partisan 


42     J  :zz  Srr?iig,  Li         /s  Scout 


jwwiliiiaic: 


%XJ 


*=±-*Ar'- 


.5  5.    :  T    ^  :3BC  iEar  to  5::^    :...:   :  .^.  _^. 

:r  ^f^e"  ^itsi  initre5:5    ::  our  I>c-uOVcg. 

"       :    sy^bcm  in  cify , 


Mjiiiscnlar,  big  n 


jrfifows  ab:    t    itr:-  -       ,  rs  and 

bdovr  a  5C  ^    -  -    '  uwi  with    1 

gata^gg  rsi  frbflr  litair      T'jit  flit  — 1-    1 1 '  •:  i::  _  ?al- 

7  5  he 


_:^0!Q.   i_ie   ^Cj-      ---    "^=^'*r*^^!    rr^e   cji^erf. :  "rd 


Abc2 


Tom  S:r  '2^.  L'  :    "/- 


bsfedk,  Mic  i£!e  m: 


Linciln's  gres-t  ;  :        '     "  '  ^igfec3S«d 


i#«     & 


"*"\.irT      T.        il       lO       ^     ^^=r:7-       ^■u.m;;^  W  T- 


--5:  ^t:  7        5a  to  hold  &c^ -  _  hi-re 

2^  rf  i:  "  there.  lr_ :   .  ~     .  1  t- 


r-iJEja.     _ 


-"\' 


—  "'■  I"    ■    —I  K^MiUI  -1  —  -    ^t^TB"   x-Z*~T^^ 


he  hid  b^ner  ke^r   :c  "is^lih  >  "  Xe^w- 

York.* 


44     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

''  Why  not  let  him  come  to  school  in  Wash- 
ington?" asked  Lincoln.  '*  In  the  school  of  the 
world?  You  see,"  he  added,  while  that  irresisti- 
ble smile  again  softened  the  firm  outlines  of  his 
big  man's  mouth,  '*  you  see  I've  taken  a  sort 
of  fancy  to  your  boy  Tom.  S'pose  you  give  him 
to  me  while  you're  away.  There  are  things  he 
can  do  for  his  country." 

It  was  perhaps  only  a  whim,  but  the  whims 
of  a  President  count.  A  month  later,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Strong  started  for  St.  Petersburg  and  Tom 
reported  at  the  White  House.  He  was  wel- 
comed by  John  Hay,  a  delightful  young  man  of 
twenty-three,  one  of  the  President's  two  private 
secretaries.     The  welcome  lacked  warmth. 

"  You're  to  sleep  in  a  room  in  the  attic,"  said 
Hay,  ''  and  I  believe  you're  to  eat  with  Mr. 
Nicolay  and  me.  I  haven't  an  idea  what  you're 
to  do  and  between  you  and  me  and  the  bedpost 
I  don't  believe  the  Ancient  has  an  idea  either. 
Perhaps  there  won't  be  anything.  Wait  a  while 
and  see." 

The  Ancient — this  was  a  nickname  his  secre- 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     45 

taries  had  given  him — had  a  very  distinct  idea, 
which  he  had  not  seen  fit  to  tell  his  zealous 
young  secretary.  Tom  found  the  w^aiting  not 
unpleasant.  He  had  a  good  many  unimportant 
things  to  do.  ''  Tad  "  Lincoln,  though  younger, 
w^as  a  good  playmate.  The  White  House  staff 
was  kind  to  him.  Even  Hay  found  it  difficult 
not  to  like  him.  Then  there  was  the  sensation 
of  being  at  the  center  of  things,  big  things.  He 
saw  men  whose  names  were  household  words. 
Half  a  dozen  times  he  lunched  with  the  Presi- 
dent's family,  a  plain  meal  with  plain  folks. 
Even  the  dinners  at  the  White  House,  except 
the  state  dinners,  were  frugal  and  plain.  Lin- 
coln drank  little  or  no  wine.  He  never  used 
tobacco.  This  was  something  of  a  miracle  in 
the  case  of  a  man  from  the  West,  for  in  those 
days,  particularly  in  the  unconventional  West, 
practically  every  man  both  smoked  and  chewed 
tobacco.  The  filthy  spittoon  was  everywhere 
conspicuous.  We  fiercely  resented  the  tales  told 
our  English  cousins,  first  by  Mrs.  Trollope  and 
then    by    Charles    Dickens,    about   our    tobacco- 


46     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

chewing,  but  the  resentment  was  so  fierce  be- 
cause the  tales  were  so  true.  Those  were  dirty 
days.  In  i860  there  were  few  bathrooms  except 
in  our  largest  cities.  Those  that  existed  were 
mostly  new.  In  1789,  when  the  present  Govern- 
ment of  the  United  States  came  into  being,  in 
New  York  City,  there  was  not  one  bathroom 
in  the  whole  town. 

At  these  family  luncheons,  Tom  was  apt  to 
become  conscious  that  Lincoln's  eyes  were  bent 
beneath  their  shaggy  eyebrows  full  upon  him. 
There  was  nothing  unkind  in  the  glance,  but 
the  boy  felt  it  go  straight  through  him.  He 
wondered  what  it  all  meant.  Why  was  he  not 
given  more  work  to  do?  Had  he  been  weighed 
and  found  wanting?  He  waited  in  suspense  a 
good  many  months. 

The  early  months  of  waiting  were  not  merry 
months.  In  July,  1861,  the  first  battle  of  Bull 
Run  had  been  fought  and  had  been  lost.  Our 
troops  ran  nearly  thirty  miles.  Telegram  after 
telegram  brought  news  of  disgrace  and  defeat 
to  the  White  House.     In  the  afternoon  Lincoln 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     47 

went  to  see  Gen.  Winfield  S.  Scott,  then  com- 
mander-in-chief of  our  armies.  The  fat  old 
general  was  taking  his  afternoon  nap.  Awak- 
ened with  difficulty,  he  gurgled  that  everything 
would  come  out  well.  Then  he  fell  asleep  again. 
Before  six  o'clock  it  was  known  that  everything 
had  turned  out  most  badly.  Washington  itself 
was  threatened  by  the  Confederate  pursuit. 
Lincoln  had  no  sleep  that  night.  The  gray  dawn 
found  him  at  his  desk,  still  receiving  dispatches, 
still  giving  orders.  When  he  left  the  desk, 
Washington  was  safe. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  battle  of  Bull 
Run,  when  the  Confederates  came  near  running 
away  but  did  not  do  so  because  the  Union  troops 
ran  first,  that  ''  Stonewall  "  Jackson  got  his  fa- 
mous nickname.  The  brigade  of  another  South- 
ern soldier.  Gen.  Bernard  Bee,  was  wavering  and 
falling  back.  Its  commander,  trying  to  hearten 
his  men,  called  out  to  them:  ''Look!  there's 
Jackson  standing  like  a  stone  wall!  "  The  men 
looked,  rallied,  and  went  on  fighting.  It  may 
have  been  that  one  thing  of  Jackson's  example 


48     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

that  turned  the  tide  at  Bull  Run,  gave  the  bat- 
tle to  the  South,  and  prolonged  the  war  by  at 
least  two  years.  Stonewall  Jackson's  soldiers 
were  called  foot-cavalry,  because  under  his  in- 
spiring leadership  they  made  marches  which 
would  have  been  a  credit  to  mounted  men.  It 
was  his  specialty  to  be  where  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  be,  by  all  the  ordinary  rules  of  war. 
He  was  a  thunderbolt  in  attack,  a  stone  wall  in 
defense. 

In  November  of  that  sad  year  of  1861,  the 
President  made  another  noteworthy  call  upon 
the  then  commander-in-chief,  Gen.  George  B. 
McClellan.  President  and  Secretary  of  State, 
escorted  by  young  Hay  and  younger  Tom,  called 
upon  the  General  at  the  latter's  house,  in  the 
evening.  They  were  told  he  was  out,  but  would 
return  soon,  so  they  waited.  McClellan  did  re- 
turn and  was  told  of  his  patient  visitors.  He 
walked  by  the  open  door  of  the  room  where  they 
were  seated  and  went  upstairs.  Half  an  hour 
later   Lincoln  sent  a  servant  to  tell  him  again 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     49 

that  they  were  there.  Word  came  back  that 
General  McClellan  had  gone  to  bed.  John 
Hay's  diary  justly  speaks  of  "  this  unparalleled 
insolence  of  epaulettes."  As  the  three  men  and 
the  boy  walked  back  to  the  White  House,  Hay 
said : 

'*  It  was  an  insolent  rebuff.  Something  should 
be  done  about  it." 

Lincoln's  almost  godlike  patience,  however, 
had  not  been  worn  out. 

"  It  is  better,"  the  great  man  answered,  "  at 
this  time  not  to  be  making  a  point  of  etiquette 
and  personal  dignity." 

The  President,  however,  stopped  calling  upon 
the  pompous  General.  After  that  experience, 
he  always  sent  word  to  AlcClellan  to  call  upon 
him. 

One  day,  at  the  close  of  a  family  luncheon, 
the  President  said  to  Tom :  "  Come  upstairs 
with  me." 

In  the  little  private  office,  Lincoln  took  off 
his  coat  and  waistcoat  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and 


50     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

lounged  into  his  chair.  He  bade  Tom  take  a 
chair  nearby.  Then  he  looked  at  the  boy  for  a 
moment,  while  his  wonderful  smile  overflowed 
his  strong  lips. 

''  Tve  been  studying  you  a  bit,  Tom.  I  think 
you'll  do.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to 
do." 

The  smile  died  quite  away. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  can  keep  still  when  you 
ought  to  keep  still?  Balaam's  ass  isn't  the  only 
ass  that  ever  talked.  Most  asses  talk — and  al- 
ways at  the  wrong  time." 

"  The  last  thing  Father  told  me,"  Tom 
answered,  '^  was  never  to  say  anything  to 
anybody  'less  I  was  sure  you'd  want  me  to 
say  it." 

'*  Your  father  is  a  wise  man,  my  boy.  Pray 
God  he  does  what  I  hope  he  will  in 
Russia." 

The  serious  face  grew  still  more  serious.  The 
long  figure  slouching  in  the  chair  straightened 
and  stiffened.  The  sloping  shoulders  seemed  to 
broaden,  as  if  to  bear  steadfastly  a  weight  that 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     51 

would  have  crushed  most  men.  The  dark  eyes 
gleamed  with  a  solemn  hope.  Tom  longed  to 
ask  what  his  father  was  to  try  to  do,  but  he 
was  not  silly  enough  to  put  his  thought  into 
words.  Another  good-by  counsel  his  father  had 
given  him  was  never  to  ask  the  President  a 
question,  unless  he  had  to  do  so.  There  was 
silence  for  a  moment.  Then  Lincoln  spoke 
again  : 

"  You're  to  carry  dispatches  for  me,  Tom. 
This  may  take  you  into  the  enemy's  country 
sometimes.  If  you  were  captured  and  were  a 
civilian,  it  might  go  hard  with  you.  So  I've  had 
you  commissioned  as  a  second  lieutenant.  If 
you  should  slip  into  a  fight  occasionally  I 
wouldn't  blame  you  much.  Mr.  Stanton,  the 
Secretary  of  War,  kicked  about  it.  He  said  he 
didn't  believe  in  giving  commissions  to  babies. 
I  told  him  you  could  almost  speak  plain  and 
could  go  'round  without  a  nurse.  Finally  he 
gave  in.  I  haven't  much  influence  with  this 
Administration " — here  Tom  looked  puzzled 
until  the  President  smiled  over  his  own  jest — 


52     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"but    I    did    get    you    the    commission.      Here 
it  is." 

He  laid  the  precious  parchment  on  the  desk, 
put  on  his  spectacles,  took  up  his  quill  pen,  and 
wrote  at  the  foot  of  it 


^/^/y^^/i><r^ 


The  boy's  heart  thrilled  and  throbbed.  He 
had  never  dreamed  of  such  an  opportunity  and 
such  an  honor.  He  was  an  officer  of  the  Union. 
He  was  to  carry  dispatches  for  the  President  of 
the  United  States.  His  hand  shook  a  little  as 
he  took  the  commission,  reverently. 

"You've  been  detailed  for  special  service,  Tom. 
Stanton  wanted  to  know  whether  your  special 
service  was  to  be  to  play  with  my  boy,  Tad. 
Stanton  w^as  pretty  mad;  that's  a  fact.  Well, 
well,  you  must  do  your  work  so  well  that  he'll 
get  over  the  blow.  You  would  have  thought  I 
was  asking  him  for  a  brigadier's  commission  for 
a  girl.  Well,  well.  Being  a  war  messenger  is 
only  one  of  your  duties,  son.     You're  to  be  my 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     53 

scout.  Keep  your  ears  and  eyes  both  open, 
Tom,  and  your  mouth  shut.  Ever  hear  the 
story  of  what  Jonah  said  to  the  whale  when  he 
got  out  of  him?  The  whale  said  to  Jonah: 
*  You've  given  me  a  terrible  stomach-ache.'  And 
Jonah  said:  'That's  what  you  got  because  you 
didn't  have  sense  enough  to  keep  your  mouth 
shut.'  But  remember,  Tom,  to  go  scouting  in 
the  right  way.  What  I  want  is  the  truth.  It's 
a  hard  thing  for  a  President  to  get.  I  don't 
want  tittle-tattle,  evil  gossip,  idle  talk.  When 
I  was  in  Congress,  there  was  a  fine  old  fellow 
in  the  House  from  Florida.  I  remember  he 
said  once  that  the  Florida  wolf  was  '  a  mean 
critter  that'd  go  snoopin'  'round  twenty  miles  a 
night  ruther  than  not  do  a  mischief.'  Don't  be 
a  wolf,  Tom, — but  don't  be  a  lamb  either,  with 
the  wool  pulled  over  your  eyes  and  ears.  Here's 
your  first  job.  This  envelope  " — Lincoln  took 
from  the  desk  a  sealed  envelope,  not  addressed, 
and  handed  it  to  the  boy — ''  this  envelope  is  for 
the  commander  of  the  '  Cumberland,'  in  Hamp- 
ton   Roads.      This   War    Department   pass   will 


54     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

carry  you  anywhere.  When  Stanton  signed  it, 
he  asked  me  whether  he  was  to  spend  a  whole 
day  signing  things  for  you  to  play  with.  Mrs. 
Lincoln  has  had  a  uniform  made  for  you,  on  the 
sly.  I  rather  think  you'll  find  it  in  your  room, 
Tom.     You'd  better  start  tomorrow." 

''  Mayn't  I  start  this  afternoon,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent?" 

"  Good  for  you.  Of  course  you  may.  I'll  say 
good-by  to  the  folks  for  you.     God  bless  you, 


son." 


Lincoln  waved  a  kindly  farewell  as  Tom,  with 
drumbeats  in  his  young  heart,  gave  a  fair  imita- 
tion of  an  officer's  salute — and  strode  out  of  the 
room  with  what  he  meant  to  be  a  manly  step. 
Once  outside,  the  step  changed  to  a  run.  He 
flew  along  the  halls  and  up  the  stairs  to  the 
attic.  He  burst  into  his  room.  On  his  narrow 
bed  lay  his  new  uniform.  Mrs.  Lincoln,  kindly 
housewife  that  she  was,  had  done  her  part  in 
the  little  conspiracy  for  the  benefit  of  the  boy 
who  was  Tad  Lincoln's  beloved  playmate.  She 
had  herself  smuggled  an  old  suit  of  Tom's  to  a 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     55 

tailor,  who  had  made  from  its  measure  the 
resplendent  new  blue  uniform  that  now  greeted 
Tom's  enraptured  eyes. 

That  afternoon,  Lieutenant  Tom  Strong  left 
the  White  House  for  Hampton  Roads.  A  swift 
dispatch  boat  carried  him  there.  He  reached 
the  flagship  on  a  lovely,  peaceful,  spring  day, 
and  delivered  his  dispatches.  The  boat  that  had 
taken  him  there  was  to  take  him  back  the  next 
morning.  He  was  glad  to  have  a  night  on  a 
warship.  It  was  a  new  experience.  And  his 
father  had  told  him  that  experience  was  the  best 
teacher  in  the  world.  The  beautiful  lines  of  the 
frigate  were  a  joy  to  see.  Her  spick  and  span 
cleanliness,  the  trim  and  trig  sailors  and  ma- 
rines, the  rows  of  polished  cannon  that  thrust 
their  grim  mouths  out  of  the  portholes,  these 
things  delighted  him.  He  was  standing  on  the 
quarter-deck  with  Lieutenant  Morris,  almost 
wishing  he  could  exchange  his  brand-new  lieu- 
tenancy in  the  army  for  one  in  the  navy,  when 
from  the  Norfolk  navy  yard  a  rocket  flared  up 
into  the  air. 


56     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

''What  is  that,  sir?"  asked  Tom.  ''Is  it  a 
signal  to  you?  '* 

"I  fancy  it  is,"  Morris  answered,  "but  it  isn't 
meant  to  be.  That's  a  rebel  rocket.  You  know 
we  lost  the  navy-yard  early  in  the  war  and  we 
haven't  got  it  back — yet.  That  rocket  went  up 
from  there.  The  Secesh  are  up  to  some  devil- 
try. They've  been  signaling  a  good  bit  of  late. 
I  wish  they'd  come  out  and  give  us  a  chance  at 
them.  Hampton  Roads  is  dull  as  ditchwater, 
'with  not  a  thing  happening." 

The  gallant  lieutenant  yawned  prodigiously. 
He  little  knew  what  terrible  things  were  to  hap- 
pen on  the  morrow.  That  rocket  meant  that  the 
rebel  ram,  the  "  Merrimac,"  the  first  iron-clad 
vessel  that  ever  went  into  action,  was  tu  sail 
down  Hampton  Roads,  where  nothing  ever 
happened,  the  next  morning  and  was  to  make 
many  things  happen.  The  Confederates  had 
converted  the  old  Union  frigate,  the  "  Mer- 
rimac," into  a  new,  strange,  and  monstrous 
thing.  They  had  placed  a  battery  of  cannon  of 
a  size  never  before  mounted  on  shipboard  upon 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     57 

her  deck,  close  to  the  water-line;  they  had  built 
over  the  battery  a  framework  of  stout  timbers, 
covered  with  armor  rolled  from  rails,  and  they 
had  put  a  cast-iron  bow  upon  this  marine 
marvel.  A  wooden  ship  was  a  mere  toy  to 
her. 

The  next  morning  came — it  was  March  8, 
1862 — and  the  "  Merrimac "  came.  As  she 
emerged  from  distance  and  mist,  our  scout- 
boats  came  racing  to  the  "  Cumberland  "  with 
news  of  the  danger  that  was  fast  nearing  her. 
The  news  was  a  tonic  to  officers  and  to  men. 
Here  at  last  was  something  to  fight.  Here  at 
last  was  something  to  do.  They  were  all  weary 
of  having  the  flagship  lie,  week  after  week, 

"As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean." 

The  men  sprang  to  quarters  with  a  joyful  cheer. 
The  officers  were  at  their  posts.  The  gun-crews 
waited  impatiently  for  the  order  to  fire.  And 
Tom,  again  upon  the  quarter-deck,  thrilled  with 
the  thrill  of  all  about  him,  was  glad  to  know  that 
the  dispatch  boat  would  not  sail  until  that  after- 


58     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

noon  and  that  he  could  see  the  fight.  Everyone 
around  him  was  sure  of  victory.  The  foe  was 
soon  to  be  sunk.  The  Stars-and-Bars,  now  fly- 
ing so  impudently  at  her  stern,  was  to  be  hung 
up  as  a  trophy  in  the  ward-room  of  the  ''  Cum- 
berland."    It  never  was. 

The  ram  steered  straight  for  the  flagship. 
She  did  not  fire  a  shot,  though  the  flagship's 
cannon  roared.  A  tongue  of  fire  blazed  from 
every  porthole  of  the  starboard  side,  towards 
which  she  came,  silently  and  swiftly.  Behind 
every  tongue  of  fire  there  rushed  a  cannon-ball. 
Many  a  ball  hit  the  ''  Merrimac."  A  wooden 
ship  would  have  been  blown  to  bits  by  the  con- 
centrated fury  of  the  cannonade.  Alas !  the 
cannon-balls  glanced  from  her  armored  sides 
"  like  peas  from  a  pop-gun."  They  rattled  like 
hail  upon  her  and  did  her  no  more  hurt  than 
hail-stones  would  have  done.  She  came  on  like 
an  irresistible  Fate.  There  had  been  shouts  of 
savage  joy  below  decks  when  the  first  order  to 
fire  had  echoed  through  them.  A  burst  of  wild 
cheering     from     the     gun-crews     had     almost 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     59 

drowned  the  first  thunder  of  the  guns.  There 
were  no  shouts  or  cheers  now.  Sharp  orders 
pierced  the  clangor  of  artillery. 

*' Stand  by  to  board!" 

The  marines  formed  quickly  at  the  starboard 
bow  of  the  "  Cumberland."  Then  at  last  the 
guns  of  the  '*  Merrimac  "  spoke.  She  was  close 
upon  her  prey  now.  The  sound  of  her  first  vol- 
ley was  the  voice  of  doom.  Her  great  cannon 
sent  masses  of  iron  through  and  through  the 
pitiful  wooden  walls  that  had  dared  to  stand  up 
against  walls  of  iron.  The  shrieks  of  wounded 
men,  of  men  screaming  their  mangled  lives 
away,  rolled  up  to  the  quarter-deck.  A  mes- 
senger dashed  up  there. 

''  Half  the  gun-crew  of^cers  are  dead.  Send 
us  others !  " 

*'  Go  below,"  said  Lieutenant  Morris,  turning 
to  two  young  midshipmen  who  stood  near  Tom, 
**  keep  the  guns  manned." 

The  two  middies  bounded  below  and  Tom 
bounded  down  with  them.  There  was  no  hope 
of  victory  now,  but  the  fight  must  be  fought  to 


6o     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

a  finish.  If  the  cannon  could  still  be  served,  a 
lucky  shot  might  strike  the  foe  in  a  vital  part, 
might  disable  her  engines,  might  carry  away  her 
steering-gear,  might — there  was  a  long  chapter 
of  possible  accidents  to  the  ''  Merrimac "  that 
might  still  save  the  ''  Cumberland  "  from  what 
seemed  to  be  her  sure  destruction.  As  the 
three  boys  raced  down  to  the  gun-deck,  they 
saw  a  fearful  scene.  Dead  and  w^ounded  men 
lay  everywhere.  The  sawdust  that  in  those 
days  used  to  be  strewn  about,  before  entering 
action,  in  order  to  soak  up  the  blood  of  the  men 
w^ho  fell  and  keep  the  decks  from  growing  slip- 
pery with  it,  had  soaked  up  all  it  could,  but  there 
were  thin  red  trickles  flowing  along  the  deck. 
Two  or  three  of  the  cannon  had  been  dis- 
mounted. Crushed  masses  that  had  been  human 
flesh  lay  beneath  them.  A  dying  oflicer  half 
raised  himself  to  give  one  last  command  and  fell 
back  dead  before  he  could  speak.  The  men  were 
standing  to  their  task  as  American  sailors  are 
wont  to  do,  but  like  all  men  they  needed  leaders. 
Three  leaders  came.    The  two  middies  and  Tom 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     6i 

took  command  of  these  officerless  cannon.  The 
other  two  boys  knew  their  w^ork  and  did  it. 
Tom  knew  that  it  was  his  business  to  keep  his 
cannon  at  work  and  he  did  it.  He  repeated, 
mechanically : 

"  Load!    Fire!    Load!    Fire!" 

His  men  responded  to  the  command.  The 
cannon  roared  once,  twace.  Then  there  came  a 
sickening  shock.  The  rebel  ram  drove  its  iron 
prow  home  through  the  side  of  the  *'  Cumber- 
land." The  good  ship  reeled  far  over  under  the 
deadly  blow^,  righted  herself,  but  began  to  sink. 
Her  race  was  run.  The  black  bulk  of  the  ''  Mer- 
rimac  "  was  just  opposite  the  porthole  of  the 
gun  Tom  was  handling.  There  was  a  last  order. 
With  the  lips  of  their  muzzles  wet  with  the  en- 
gulfing sea,  the  cannon  of  the  "  Cumberland  " 
roared  their  last  defiance  of  death.  Down  went 
the  ship.  The  sea  about  her  w^as  black  with 
wreckage  and  with  struggling  men.  Boats 
from  other  ships  and  from  the  shore  darted 
among  them,  picking  them  up.  The  dispatch 
boat  that  had  brought  Tom  down  was  busy  with 


62     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

that  good  work.  The  ''  Merrimac  "  could  have 
sunk  her  without  effort,  but  of  course  the  Con- 
federates never  dreamed  of  making  the  effort. 
Americans  do  not  fire  at  drowning  men.  When 
Tom  jumped  into  the  water,  as  the  ship  sank 
beneath  him,  he  swam  to  a  shattered  spar  and 
clutched  it.  But  other  men  who  could  not  swim 
clutched  at  it  too.  It  threatened  to  sink  with 
their  added  weight  and  carry  them  down  with 
it.  So  the  boy,  thoroughly  at  home  in  the  water, 
let  go,  turned  upon  his  back,  floated  with  his 
nose  just  above  the  surface,  and  waited  for  the 
help  that  was  at  hand.  A  boat-hook  caught  his 
trousers  at  the  waist-band.  He  was  pulled  up 
to  the  deck  of  the  dispatch  boat.  It  was  not 
quite  the  way  in  which  he  had  expected  to  board 
her.  From  her  bridge,  with  the  deck  below  him 
crowded  with  the  rescued  sailors  of  the  "  Cum- 
berland," he  saw  the  second  sad  act  of  that 
day's  tragedy. 

The  '*  Merrimac  "  had  backed  away,  after  that 
terrible  thrust  of  her  iron  ram,  until  she  was 
free  from  the  ship  she  had  destroyed.     Then  she 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     63 

laid  her  course  for  the  "  Congress,"  invincible 
yesterday,  today  helplessly  weak  in  the  face  of 
this  new  terror  of  the  seas.  The  ''  Congress  " 
fought  to  the  last  gasp,  but  that  last  gasp  came 
all  too  soon.  Raked  fore  and  aft  by  her  adver- 
sary's guns,  unable  to  fire  a  single  effective  shot 
in  reply,  she  ran  upon  a  shoal  while  trying  to 
escape  from  being  rammed  and  lay  there,  no 
longer  a  fighting  machine,  but  a  mere  target  for 
her  foe.  Her  captain  could  not  hope  to  save 
his  ship.  The  only  thing  he  could  do  was  to 
save  the  lives  of  such  of  his  crew  as  were  still 
alive.  And  there  was  but  one  way  to  do  that. 
The  "  Congress  "  surrendered.  The  Stars-and- 
Stripes  fluttered  down  from  her  masthead.  In 
place  of  the  flag  of  the  free,  the  Stars-and-Bars, 
symbol  of  slavery,  flew  above  the  surrendered 
ship.  The  ''  Cumberland,"  going  down  with  her 
flag,  had  had  the  better  fate  of  the  two. 

The  '*  Merrimac,"  justly  satisfied  with  her 
day's  work  and  with  the  toll  she  had  taken  of 
the  Union  squadron,  steamed  proudly  back  to 
Norfolk,  to  repair  the  slight  damages  she  had 


64     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

suffered  and  to  make  ready  to  complete  her 
conquest  on  the  morrow.  Three  Union  ships 
still  lay  in  Hampton  Roads,  great  frigates,  the 
finest  of  their  kind  then  afloat,  perfectly  ap- 
pointed, fully  manned, — and  as  useless  as  though 
they  had  been  the  toy-boats  of  a  child.  The 
"  Minnesota,"  now  the  flagship,  signaled  Cap- 
tain Lawrence's  stirring  slogan :  ''  Don't  give  up 
the  ship!"  It  might  have  been  called  a  bit  of 
useless  bravery,  but  no  bravery  is  useless.  At 
least  the  officers  and  men  of  the  three  doomed 
ships  would  fight  for  the  flag  until  they  died.  It 
was  just  possible  that  one  of  the  three  might 
so  maneuver  that  she  would  strike  the  foe 
amidships  and  sink  with  her  to  a  glorious 
death. 

That  night  the  wdld  anxiety  at  Hampton 
Roads  was  more  than  echoed  at  New  York  and 
Washington.  The  wires  had  told  the  terrible 
tale  of  the  ''  Merrimac."  It  was  thought  she 
could  go  straight  to  New  York,  sink  all  the 
shipping  there,  command  the  city  and  levy 
tribute    upon    it.      Lincoln's    Secretary    of    the 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     65 

Navy,  Gideon  Welles  of  Connecticut,  wrote  in 
his  diary  that  night:  "  The  most  frightened  man 
on  that  gloomy  day  was  the  Secretary  of  War. 
He  was  at  times  almost  frantic.  .  .  .  He  ran 
from  room  to  room,  sat  down  and  jumped  up 
after  writing  a  few  words,  swung  his  arms, 
and  scolded  and  raved."  Hay  records  that 
"  Stanton  was  fearfully  stampeded.  He  said 
they  would  capture  our  fleet,  take  Fort  ^Monroe, 
be  in  Washington  before  night." 

Without  consulting  the  Secretary  of  the 
Navy,  Stanton  had  some  fifty  canal-boats  loaded 
with  stone  and  sent  them  to  be  sunk  on  Kettle 
Bottom  Shoals,  in  the  Potomac,  to  keep  the 
"  Merrimac  "  from  reaching  Washington.  The 
canal-boats  reached  the  Shoals,  but  the  order  to 
sink  them  was  countermanded  by  cooler  heads. 
They  were  left  in  a  long  row,  tied  up  to  the 
river  bank. 

The  three  doomed  ships  at  Hampton  Roads 
soon  knew  that  at  nine  o'clock  of  that  fateful 
night   there  had  steamed  in   from   the  ocean  a 


66     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

Union  iron-clad.    Her  coming,  however,  brought 

scant  comfort. 

"What  is  she  Hke?"  asked  the  first  captain 

to  hear  the  news. 

*'  Like?    She's  hke  a  cheese-box  on  a  raft." 
It  was  not  a  bad  description.     She  was  the 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  "  MONITOR  "  AND  THE  "  MERRIMAC  " 


*'  Monitor,"  an  unknown  boat  of  an  unknown 
type  that  day,  and  on  the  morrow  the  most  fa- 
mous fighting  craft  that  ever  sailed  the  seas. 
She  was  born  of  the  brain  of  a  Swedish- 
American,  Capt.  John  Ericsson,  whose  statue 
stands  in  Battery  Park,  the  southern  tip  of  the 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     67 

metropolis,  looking  down  to  the  ocean  he  saved 
for  freedom's  cause. 

Lieut.  A.  L.  Worden,  commanding  the 
"  Monitor,"  was  soon  in  consultation  with  the 
other  commanders.  They  scarcely  tried  to  dis- 
guise their  belief  that  he  had  merely  brought 
another  predestined  victim.  His  ship  was  tiny, 
compared  with  the  ''  Merrimac."  She  was  not 
built  to  ram,  as  was  her  terrible  antagonist. 
Her  guns  were  of  a  greater  caliber,  to  be  sure, 
than  any  wooden  ship  mounted,  but  there  were 
but  two  of  them  and  they  could  be  brought  to 
bear  only  by  revolving  the  ''  Monitor's  "  turret, 
— a  newfangled  device  in  everyday  use  now,  but 
then  unknown  and  consequently  despised.  Men 
either  fear  or  despise  the  unknown.  They  are 
usually  wrong  in  doing  either.  The  council  of 
captains  agreed  upon  a  plan  for  the  next  day's 
fight.  The  plan  was  based  upon  the  theory  that 
the  ''Monitor"  would  be  speedily  sunk.  Nev- 
ertheless, she  was  to  face  the  foe  first  of  all. 

Again  the  next  morning  came  and  again  there 
came  the  rebel  ram.     Decked  out  in  flags  as  if 


68     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

for  a  festival,  proudly  certain  of  victory,  the 
"  Merrimac "  steamed  down  Hampton  Roads. 
The  cheese-box  on  a  raft  steamed  out  to  meet 
her.  It  v^^as  David  confronting  Goliath.  Goliath 
had  fourteen  guns  and  David  had  two.  The 
iron-clads  came  nearer  and  the  most  famous  sea- 
duel  ever  fought  began.  Tom  saw  it  all  from 
the  bridge  of  the  ''  Minnesota."  Both  vessels 
fired  and  fired  again,  without  result.  Their 
armor  defied  even  the  big  guns  they  carried. 
Then  the  "  Merrimac  "  tried  to  bring  her  deadly 
ram  into  play.  The  "  Monitor "  dodged  into 
shoal  water,  hoping  her  foe  would  follow  her 
and  run  aground.  The  ''  Merrimac "  did  not 
fall  into  the  trap.  On  the  contrary,  she  left  her 
adversary  and  made  a  headlong  course  for  the 
helpless  "  Minnesota."  On  board  the  latter, 
drums  beat  to  quarters,  shrill  whistles  gave 
orders,  and  the  great  ship  moved  forward  to 
what  seemed  certain  destruction.  But  the 
*'  Monitor  "  slipped  away  from  the  shoals  and 
made  after  the  ''  Merrimac,"  firing  her  guns  as 
rapidly  as  her  creaking  turret  could  turn.     The 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     69 

"  Merrimac "  faced  about,  bound  this  time  to 
make  short  work  of  this  wretched  Httle  gnat  that 
was  seeking  to  sting  her.  This  time  the  two 
came  to  close  grips.  Each  tried  to  ram  the  other 
down.  Each  struck  the  other,  but  struck  a 
glancing  blow.  They  lay  almost  alongside  and 
pounded  each  other  with  their  giant  guns.  A 
missile  from  the  ''  Monitor "  came  through  a 
porthole  of  the  ''  Merrimac,"  breaking  a  cannon 
and  dealing  death  and  destruction  within  her 
iron  sides.  She  turned  and  ran  for  safety  to  the 
shelter  of  the  Confederate  batteries  at  Norfolk. 
The  ''  Monitor  "  lay  almost  unharmed  upon  the 
gentle  waves  of  Hampton  Roads,  the  ungainly 
master  of  the  seas.  The  "  Merrimac "  never 
dared  again  to  try  conclusions  with  her  stout 
little  rival.  She  stayed  at  her  moorings  until 
she  was  blown  up  there  just  before  the  Union 
forces  captured  Norfolk.  The  Union  blockade 
was  never  broken.  The  ''  Monitor  "  survived 
the  fight  only  to  founder  later  in  ''  the  grave- 
yard of  ships,"  ofT  Cape  Hatteras. 

The  wires  had  told  the  story  of  the  famous 


70     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

fight  before  Tom  reached  Washington,  but  he 
was  the  first  eye-witness  of  it  to  reach  there  and 
he  had  to  tell  the  tale  many  and  many  a  time. 
His  first  auditors  were  Lincoln  and  Secretary 
Welles.  The  dispatch  boat  that  carried  him 
back  put  him  on  board  the  President's  boat, 
south  of  Kettle  Bottom  Shoals,  on  the  Potomac, 
in  obedience  to  orders  signaled  to  it.  When  he 
had  finished  his  story,  there  was  silence  for  a 
moment.  The  boy  saw  Lincoln's  lips  move,  per- 
haps In  prayer,  perhaps  in  thanksgiving.  Then 
the  grave  face  relaxed  and  the  pathetic  eyes 
twinkled  with  humor.  The  President  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  Secretary's  arm  and  pointed  to  a 
long  line  of  stone-laden  canal-boats  that  bor- 
dered the  bank. 

"  There's  Stanton's  navy,"  said  Lincoln. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Tom  Goes  West — Wilkes  Booth  Hunts  Him — 
Dr.  Hans  Rolf  Saves  Him — He  Delivers 
Dispatches  to  General  Grant. 

AT  the  end  of  the  next  month,  April,  1862, 
Admiral  Farragut  gallantly  forced  open  the 
closed  mouth  of  the  Mississippi.  He  took  his 
wooden  ships  into  action  against  forts  and  iron- 
clad gunboats  and  captured  New  Orleans. 
Within  fifteen  months  thereafter,  the  North  was 
in  practical  control  of  the  whole  Mississippi. 
By  July,  1863,  the  Confederacy  had  been  split 
into  two  parts,  east  and  west  of  the  ''  Father  of 
Waters."  That  was  the  poetic  Indian  name  of 
the  Mississippi.  Farragut's  fleet  began  the  driv- 
ing of  the  wedge.  Grant's  army  drove  it  home. 
When  the  driving  home  had  just  begun,  Tom, 
to  his  intense  delight,  was  sent  West  with  dis- 
patches for  Grant.    He  left  on  an  hour's  notice. 

71 


72     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

^  During  that  hour,  a  colored  servant  employed 

in  the  White  House,  whose  heart  was  blacker 


ADMIRAL  FARRAGUT 


than  his  sooty  skin,  had  left  the  mansion,  had 
sought  a  tumble-down  tenement  in  the  slums, 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     73 

and  had  found  there  a  vulture  of  a  man,  very 
white  as  to  face,  very  black  as  to  the  masses  of 
hair  that  fell  to  his  shoulders. 

''  Dat  dar  boy  Strong,  he's  dun  sure  goin'," 
said  the  darkey,  *Svid  papers  fur  dat  General 
Grant  out  West." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  Coz  I  listened  to  de  door,  when  dey-uns  wuz 
a-talkin'." 

''  He'll  have  to  go  West  by  Baltimore,"  mused 
the  white  man.  "  The  next  train  leaves  in  half 
an  hour.  I  can  make  it.  Here,  Reub,  here's 
your  pay." 

He  took  a  five-dollar  gold  piece  from  his 
pocket.  The  negro  clutched  at  it.  Then  what 
was  left  of  his  conscience  stirred  within  him. 
He  said,  pleadingly,  hesitatingly: 

"  Massa,  you  knows  I'se  doin'  dis  coz  old 
Massa  told  me  to.  You  ain't  a-goin'  to  hurt  dat 
boy  Strong,  is  you?  He's  a  nice  boy.  Ebery- 
body  lubs  him  up  dar." 

"What  is  it  to  you,  confound  you!"  snarled 
the  man,  ''whether  I  hurt  him  or  not?    What's 


74     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

a  boy's  life  to  winning  the  war?  You  keep  on 
doing  what  old  Massa  told  you  to  do,  or  I'll  cut 
your  black  heart  out." 

With  a  savage  gesture,  he  thrust  the  trem- 
bling negro  out  of  the  dingy  room.  With 
savage  haste,  he  packed  his  scanty  belongings. 
With  a  pistol  in  his  hip  pocket,  with  a  bowie- 
knife  slung  over  his  left  breast  beneath  his  waist- 
coat, with  a  vial  of  chloroform  in  his  valise, 
Wilkes  Booth  left  Washington  on  the  trail  of 
Tom  Strong. 

Hunter  and  hunted  were  in  the  same  car. 
Tom  little  dreamed  that  a  few  seats  behind  him 
sat  a  deadly  foe,  who  would  stick  at  nothing  to 
get  the  precious  papers  he  carried.  Washing- 
ton swarmed  with  Confederate  spies.  The  face 
of  everybody  at  the  White  House  was  well 
known  to  every  spy.  The  hunter  did  not  have 
to  guess  where  the  hunted  sat. 

General  Grant  had  begun  his  career  of  victory 
in  the  West.  It  was  all-important  to  the  Con- 
federacy to  know  where  his  next  blow  was  to 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     75 

be  aimed.  The  papers  in  the  scout's  possession 
would  tell  that  great  secret.  Wilkes  Booth 
meant  to  have  those  papers  soon.  As  the  train 
bumped  over  the  rough  iron  rails,  towards  Bal- 
timore, Booth  went  to  the  forward  end  of  the  car 
for  a  glass  of  water  and  as  he  walked  back  along 
the  aisle  with  a  slow,  lounging  step,  he  stopped 
where  Tom  sat  and  held  out  his  hand,  saying: 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Strong?  I'm  Mr. 
Barnard.  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
about  the  White  House  sometimes,  when  I  have 
been  calling  on  our  great  President.  Lincoln 
will  crush  these  accursed  rebels  soon !  " 

It  was  a  trifle  overdone,  a  trifle  theatrical. 
Wilkes  Booth  could  never  help  being  theatrical. 
His  greeting  was  one  of  the  few  times  Tom  had 
ever  been  called  *'  Mister."  He  felt  flattered 
and  took  the  proffered  hand  willingly,  but  he 
searched  his  memory  in  vain  for  any  real  recol- 
lection of  the  striking  face  of  the  man  who  spoke 
to  him.  There  was  some  vague  stirring  of 
memory  about  it,  but  certainly  this  had  no  rela- 
tion  to   that   happy   life   at   the   White    House. 


76     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

Something  evil  was  connected  with  it.  Puzzled, 
he  wondered.  He  had  seen  Booth  under  arms  at 
John  Brown's  scaffold,  but  he  did  not  remember 
that. 

The  alleged  Mr.  Barnard  slipped  into  the  seat 
beside  him  and  began  to  talk.  He  talked  well. 
Little  by  little,  suspicion  fell  asleep  in  Tom's 
mind  as  his  companion  told  of  adventures  on  sea 
and  land.  Booth  was  trying  to  seem  to  talk 
with  very  great  frankness,  in  order  to  lure  Tom 
into  a  similar  frankness  about  himself.  He 
larded  all  his  talk  with  protestations  of  fervent 
loyalty  to  the  Union.  Tom  bethought  himself 
of  a  favorite  quotation  his  father  often  used 
from  Shakespeare's  great  play  of  ''  Hamlet." 
The  conscience-stricken  queen  says  to  Hamlet, 
her  son: 

"  The  lady  doth  protest  too  much,  methinks." 
Wilkes  Booth  was  protesting  too  much.  The 
drowsy  suspicion  in  Tom's  mind  stirred  again. 
But  he  was  but  a  boy  and  Booth  was  a  man, 
skilled  in  all  the  craft  of  the  stage.  Once  more 
his   easy,   brilliant  talk  lulled   caution   to   sleep. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     77 

Tom,  questioned  so  skillfully  that  he  did  not 
know  he  was  being  drawn  out,  little  by  little 
told  the  story  of  his  short  life.  But  the  story 
ended  with  his  saying  he  was  going  to  Harris- 
burg  '*  on  business."  He  was  still  enough  on  his 
guard  not  to  admit  he  was  going  further  than 
Harrisburg. 

"  You're  pretty  young  to  be  on  the  way  to  the 
State  Capitol  on  business,"  said  the  skillful 
actor,  hoping  to  hear  more  details  in  answer  to 
the  half-implied  sneer.  But  just  then  Tom  re- 
membered what  his  father  had  advised:  "  Never 
say  anything  to  anybody,  unless  you  are  sure 
the  President  would  wish  you  to  say  it."  He 
shut  up  like  a  clam.  Booth  could  get  nothing 
more  out  of  him.  But  he  meant  to  get  those 
dispatches  out  of  him.  They  were  either  in  the 
boy's  pocket  or  his  valise,  probably  in  his 
pocket.  When  he  fell  asleep,  the  spy's  time 
would  come.     So  the  spy  waited. 

Darkness  came.  Two  smoky  oil-lamps  gave 
such  light  as  they  could.  The  train  rumbled 
on  in  the  night.     There  were  no  sleeping  cars 


yS     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

then.  People  slept  in  their  seats,  if  they  slept 
at  all.  Booth's  tones  grew  soothing,  almost 
tender.  They  served  as  a  lullaby.  Tom  slept. 
The  spy  beside  him  drew  a  long,  triumphant 
breath.     His  time  had  come. 

Some  time  before,  he  had  shifted  his  travel- 
ing-bag to  this  seat.  Now  he  drew  from  it, 
gently,  quietly,  the  little  bottle  of  chloroform 
and  a  small  sponge,  which  he  saturated  with  the 
stupefying  drug.  Then  he  slipped  his  arm  under 
the  sleeping  boy's  head,  drew  him  a  little  closer 
to  himself,  and  glanced  through  the  dusky  car. 
Nearly  everybody  was  asleep.  Those  who  were 
not  were  trying  to  go  to  sleep.  No  one  was 
watching.  Booth  pressed  the  sponge  to  Tom's 
nostrils.  Tom  stirred  uneasily.  ''  Sh-sh,  Tom," 
purred  the  actor,  "  go  to  sleep;  all's  well."  The 
drug  soon  did  its  work.  The  boy  was  dead  to  the 
world  for  awhile.     Only  a  shock  could  rouse  him. 

The  shock  came.  Booth's  long,  sensitive, 
skilled  fingers — the  fingers  of  a  musician — ran- 
sacked his  coat  and  waistcoat  pockets  swiftly, 
finding    nothing.      But    beneath    the    waistcoat 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     79 

their  tell-tale  touches  had  detected  the  longed- 
for  papers.  The  waistcoat  was  deftly  unbut- 
toned— it  could  have  been  stripped  off  without 
arousing  the  unconscious  boy — and  a  trium- 
phant thrill  shot  through  Booth's  black  heart  as 
he  drew  from  an  inner  pocket  the  long,  official 
envelope  that  he  knew  must  hold  what  he  had 
stealthily  sought.  He  was  just  about  to  slip  it 
into  his  own  pocket  and  then  to  leave  his  stupe- 
fied victim  to  sleep  off  the  drug  while  he  himself 
sought  safety  at  the  next  station,  when  one  of 
those  little  things  which  have  big  results  oc- 
curred. The  sturdy  man  who  was  snoring  in  the 
seat  behind  this  one  happened  to  be  a  surgeon. 
He  was  returning  from  Washington,  whither  he 
had  gone  to  operate  on  a  dear  friend,  a  wounded 
officer.  Chloroform  had  of  course  been  used, 
but  the  patient  had  died  under  the  knife.  It 
had  been  a  terrible  experience  for  the  operator. 
It  had  made  his  sleep  uneasy.  A  mere  whiff 
from  the  sponge  Booth  had  used  reached  the 
surgeon's  sensitive  nostril.  It  revived  the 
poignant  memories  of  the  last  few  hours.     He 


8o     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

awoke  with  a  start  that  brought  him  to  his  feet. 
And  there,  just  in  front  of  him,  he  saw  by  the 
dim  Hght  a  boy  sunk  in  stupefied  slumber  and 
a  man  glancing  guiltily  back  as  he  tried  to  thrust 
a  stiff  and  crackling  paper  into  his  pocket.  The 
sponge  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  but  its  fumes,  far- 
spreading  now,  told  to  the  practiced  surgeon  a 
story  of  foul  play.  He  grabbed  the  man  by 
the  shoulder  and  awoke  most  of  the  travelers, 
but  not  Tom,  with  a  stentorian  shout:  "What 
are  you  doing,  you  scoundrel?" 

The  scoundrel  leaped  to  his  feet,  throwing  off 
the  doctor's  hand,  and  sprang  into  the  aisle, 
clutching  the  long  envelope  in  his  left  hand, 
while  his  right  held  a  revolver.  He  rushed  for 
the  door,  pursued  by  half  a  dozen  men,  headed 
by  the  doctor.  Close  pressed,  he  whirled  about 
and  leveled  his  pistol  at  his  unarmed  pursuers. 
They  fell  back  a  pace.  He  whirled  again,  stum- 
bled over  a  bag  in  the  aisle,  fell,  sprang  to  his 
feet  once  more.  A  brakeman  opened  the  door. 
He  was  hurrying  to  see  what  this  clamor  meant. 
Wilkes    Booth    fired    at   him    pointblank.      The 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     8i 

bullet  missed,  but  it  made  the  brakeman  give 
way.  Booth  rushed  by  him,  gained  the  plat- 
form and  leaped  from  the  slow  train  into  the 
sheltering  night. 

The  shock  that  waked  Tom  was  the  sound  of 
the  shot.  Weak,  dizzy,  and  sick,  he  knew  only 
that  some  terrible  thing  was  happening.  In- 
stinctively, his  hand  sought  that  inner  pocket, 
only  to  find  it  empty.  Then,  indeed,  he  was 
wide  awake.  The  horror  of  his  loss  burned 
through  his  brain.  He  shouted:  **' Stop  him! 
Stop  thief!  "  and  collapsed  again  into  his  seat. 

He  was  in  fact  a  very  sick  boy.  The  dose  of 
chloroform  that  had  been  given  him  would  have 
been  an  overdose  for  a  man.  Notwithstanding 
his  awakening,  he  might  have  relapsed  into 
sleep  and  death,  had  not  the  skillful  surgeon 
been  there  to  devote  himself  to  him.  An  anti- 
dote was  forced  down  his  throat.  Willing  vol- 
unteers, for  of  course  the  whole  car  was  now 
awake  in  a  hurly-burly  of  question  and  answer, 
rubbed  life  back  into  him.  When  he  was  a  bit 
better,  he  was  kept  walking  up  and  down  the 


82     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

aisle,  while  two  strong  men  held  him  up  and 
his  head  swayed  helplessly  from  side  to  side. 
But  the  final  cure  came  when  the  surgeon  who 
had  kept  catlike  watch  upon  him  saw  that  he 
could  now  begin  to  understand  things. 

"  Here  is  something  of  yours/'  he  whispered 
into  the  lad's  half-unconscious  ear.  ''  That  scoun- 
drel stole  it  from  you.  When  he  fell,  he  must 
have  dropped  it  on  the  floor.  I  found  it  there 
after  he  had  jumped  off  the  platform." 

Tom's  hand  closed  over  the  fateful  envelope. 
His  trembling  fingers  ran  along  its  edges.  It 
had  not  been  opened.  He  had  not  betrayed  his 
trust.  A  profound  thankfulness  and  joy  stirred 
within  him.  Within  an  hour  he  was  practically 
himself  again.  Then  he  poured  out  his  heart 
in  thanks  to  the  sturdy  surgeon  who  had  saved 
not  only  his  life,  but  his  honor.  He  asked  his 
name  and  started  at  his  reply: 

Dr.  Hans  Rolf,  of  York,  Pennsylvania." 
Dr.   Hans  Rolf,"  repeated  Tom,  "but  per- 
haps you  are  the  grandson  of  the  Hans  Rolf  I've 
heard  about  all  my  life.     My  father  is  always 


(( 


i( 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     83 

telling  me  of  things  Hans  Rolf  did  for  my 
grandfather  and  great-grandfather." 

"And  what  is  your  name?"  queried  the  doc- 
tor, surprised  as  may  be  imagined  that  this  un- 
known boy  should  know  him  so  well. 

"Tom   Strong." 

"  By  the  Powers,"  shouted  the  hearty  doctor, 
seizing  the  boy's  hand  and  wringing  it  as  his 
grandfather  used  to  wring  the  hand  of  the  Tom 
Strongs  he  knew,  "  By  the  Powers,  next  to  my 
own  name  there's  none  I  know  so  well  as  yours. 
My  grandfather  never  wearied  of  talking  about 
the  two  Tom  Strongs,  father  and  son.  The  last 
day  he  lived,  he  told  me  how  your  great- 
grandfather saved  his  life." 

"  And  you  know  he  saved  great-grandfather's, 
too,"  answered  Tom,  "  and  now  you  have  saved 


mine." 


He  looked  shyly  at  his  preserver.  He  was 
still  weak  with  the  after-effects  of  the  drug  that 
had  been  given  him.  The  Hans  Rolf  he  saw 
was  a  bit  blurred  by  the  unshed  tears  through 
which  he  saw  him. 


84     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

''  Nonsense,"  said  the  surgeon,  "  whatever 
I've  done  is  just  in  the  day's  work.  But  you 
must  stop  at  York  and  rest.  I  can't  let  my 
patient  travel  just  yet,  you  know.  And  this  may 
be  your  last  chance  to  see  me  at  home.  I  go 
into  the  army  next  month." 

However,  Tom  was  not  to  be  persuaded  to 
stop.  Duty  called  him  Westward  and  to  the 
West  he  went,  as  fast  as  the  slow  trains  of  those 
days  could  carry  him.  But  when  Hans  Rolf  and 
he  parted,  a  few  hours  after  they  had  met,  they 
were  friends  for  life. 

It  took  Tom  two  days  to  get  from  Harrisburg 
to  Cairo,  the  southernmost  town  in  Illinois.  It 
lies  at  the  junction  of  the  IMississippi  and  Ohio 
rivers.  The  latter  pours  a  mass  of  beautiful  blue 
water — the  early  French  explorers  named  the 
Ohio  "  the  beautiful  river  " — into  the  muddy 
flood  of  the  IMississippi.  For  miles  below  Cairo 
the  blue  and  yellow  streams  seem  to  flow  side 
by  side.  Then  the  yellow  swallows  the  blue  and 
the  mighty  Mississippi  rolls  its  murky  way  to 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico.     A  gunboat  took  the  young 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     85 

messenger  from  Cairo  to  General  Grant's  head- 
quarters. 

A  Western  gunboat  was  an  odd  thing.  James 
B.  Eads,  an  eminent  engineer,  who  after  the  war 
built  the  St.  Louis  bridge  and  the  New  Orleans 
jetties,  which  keep  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi 
open,   had   launched   a   flotilla   of   gunboats   for 


Hft 


MISSISSIPPI  RIVER  GUNBOATS 


the  government  within  four  months  of  the  time 
when  the  trees  which  went  to  their  making  were 
growing  in  the  forests.  On  a  flat-boat  of  the 
ordinary  Western-river  type,  Mr.  Eads  put  a 
long  cabin,  framed  of  stout  timbers,  cut  port- 
holes in  the  sides,  front  and  rear  of  it,  mounted 
cannon  inside  it,  covered  it  with  rails  outside 
(later  armor-plate  was  used),  and  behold,  a  gun- 


86     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

boat.  The  one  which  sped  swiftly  with  Tom 
down  the  Mississippi  and  w^addled  slowly  with 
him  up  the  Tennessee,  against  the  current  of  the 
Spring  freshets,  finally  landed  him  at  Grant's 
headquarters. 

Tom  approached  the  tent  over  which  head- 
quarters* flag  was  flying  with  a  beating  heart. 
It  beat  against  the  long  envelope  that  lay  in  the 
inner  pocket  of  his  waistcoat.  He  w^as  about  to 
finish  his  task  and  he  was  about  to  see  the  one 
successful  soldier  of  the  Union,  up  to  that  time. 
The  Northern  armies  had  not  done  well  in  the 
East — the  defeat  had  been  disgraceful  and  the 
panic  sickening  with  the  raw  troops  at  Bull  Run, 
Virginia,  and  little  had  been  gained  elsewhere — 
but  in  the  West  Grant  was  hammering  out  suc- 
cess.    All  eyes  turned  to  him. 

Upon  the  top  of  a  low  knoll,  half  a  dozen 
packing-boxes  were  grouped  in  front  of  the 
tent.  Two  or  three  officers,  most  of  them  spick 
and  span,  sat  upon  each  box  except  one.  Upon 
that     one     there     lounged     a     man,     thick-set, 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     87 

bearded,  his  faded  blue  trousers  thrust  into  the 
tops  of  dusty  boots,  his  blue  flannel  shirt  open 
at  the  throat,  his  worn  blue  coat  carrying  on  each 
shoulder  the  single  star  of  a  brigadier-general. 

It  was  General  Grant,  Hiram  Ulysses  Grant, 
now  known  as  U.  S.  Grant.  When  the  Confed- 
erate commander  of  Fort  Donelson  had  asked 
him  for  terms  of  surrender,  he  had  answered 
practically  in  two  words :  "  unconditional  sur- 
render." The  curt  phrase  caught  the  public 
fancy,  and  gave  his  initials  a  new  meaning.  He 
was  long  known  as  "  Unconditional  Surrender  " 
Grant. 

Born  in  Ohio,  he  had  been  educated  at  West 
Point,  had  fought  well  in  our  unjust  war  against 
Mexico,  had  resigned  in  the  piping  times  of 
peace  that  followed,  had  been  a  commercial 
failure,  and  was  running  an  insignificant  busi- 
ness as  a  farmer  in  Galena,  Illinois,  an  obscure 
and  unimportant  citizen  of  that  unimportant 
town,  when  the  Civil  War  began.  Eight 
years  afterwards,  he  became  President  of  the 
United    States    and    served    as    such    for    eight 


88     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

years,  doing  his  dogged  best,  but  far  less  suc- 
cessful as  a  statesman  than  he  had  been  as  a 
soldier.  He  was  a  patriot  and  a  good  man.  In 
the  last  years  of  his  life,  ruined  financially  by  a 
wicked  partner  and  tortured  by  the  cancer  that 
finally  killed  him,  he  wrote  his  famous  memoirs, 
w^hich  netted  his  family  a  fortune  after  the 
grave  had  closed  upon  this  great  American.  He 
ran  a  race  with  Death  to  write  his  life.  And 
he  won  the  grim  race. 

The  young  second-lieutenant  saluted  and  ex- 
plained his  mission.  The  long  envelope,  deeply 
dented  with  the  mark  of  Wilkes  Booth's  dirty 
thumb  and  finger,  had  reached  its  destination  at 
last.  Grant  took  it,  opened  it,  read  it  w^ithout 
even  a  slight  change  of  expression,  though  it 
contained  not  only  orders  for  the  future,  but 
Lincoln's  warm-hearted  thanks  for  the  past  and 
the  news  of  his  own  promotion  to  be  major- 
general.  Not  only  Tom,  but  every  member  of 
his  staft  was  w^atching  him.  The  saturnine 
face  told  no  one  anything.  The  little  he  said  at 
the  moment  was  said  to  Tom. 


t( 


le 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     89 

*'  The  President  tells  me  he  would  like  to  have 
you  given  a  glimpse  of  the  front.  Have  you  had 
any  experience?  " 

"Xo,  sir." 

"When  were  you  commissioned?" 

(IK  1  •        >> 

A  week  ago,  sir. 

"  Are  all  the  Eastern  boys  of  your  age  in  the 
army: 

They  would  like  to  be,  sir." 
Well,"  said  Grant,  with  a  kindly  smile,  "  per- 
haps a  little  experience  at  the  front  may  make 
up  for  the  years  you  lack.  Send  him  to  General 
^litchell,  Captain,"  he  added,  turning  to  a  spruce 
aide  who  rose  from  his  packing-box  seat  to 
acknowledge  the  command. 

"  Pray  come  with  me,  ^Ir.  Strong,"  said  the 
captain. 

Tom  saluted,  turned,  and  followed  his  guide. 
A  backward  glance  showed  him  the  general,  his 
eyes  now  bent  sternly  upon  Lincoln's  letter,  his 
stafiP  eyeing  him,  a  group  of  quiet,  silent  figures. 
And  that  was  all  that  Tom  saw,  at  that  time, 
of  the  greatest  general  of  our  Civil  War. 


CHAPTER  V 

Inside  the  Confederate  Lines — "  Sairey  " 
Warns  Tom — Old  Man  Tomblin's  "  Settle- 
mint  "  —  Stealing  a  Locomotive  —  Wilkes 
Booth  Gives  the  Alarm — A  Wild  Dash  for 
THE  Union  Lines. 

^~r^  HREE  days  afterwards,  Tom  found  him- 
self '*  on  special  service,"  on  the  staff  of 
Gen.  O.  M.  Mitchell,  whose  troops  were  pushing 
towards  Huntsville,  Alabama.  They  occupied 
that  delightfully  sleepy  old  town,  the  center  of 
a  group  of  rich  plantations,  April  12,  1862,  but 
Tom  was  not  then  with  the  column.  Five  days 
before,  with  Mitchell's  permission,  he  had  vol- 
unteered for  a  gallant  foray  into  the  enemy's 
country.  He  had  taken  prompt  advantage  of 
Lincoln's  hint  that  he  might  fight  a  bit  if  he 
wanted  to  do  so.  He  was  to  have  his  fill  of 
fighting  now. 

90 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     91 

Tom  was  one  of  twenty-two  volunteers  who 
left  camp  before  dawn  on  April  7,  under  the 
command  of  James  J.  Andrews,  a  daredevil  of  a 
man,  who  had  persuaded  General  Mitchell  to  let 
him  try  to  slip  across  the  lines  with  a  handful 
of  soldiers  disguised  as  Confederates  in  order 
to  steal  a  locomotive  and  rush  it  back  to  the 
Union  front,  burning  all  the  railroad  bridges  it 
passed.  The  railroads  to  be  crippled  were  those 
which  ran  from  the  South  to  Chattanooga, 
Tennessee,  and  from  the  East  through  Chat- 
tanooga and  Huntsville  to  Memphis.  A  few 
miles  from  camp,  Andrews  gave  his  men  their 
orders.  They  were  to  separate  and  singly  or  in 
groups  of  two  or  three  were  to  make  their  way 
to  the  station  of  Big  Shanty,  Georgia,  where 
they  were  to  meet  on  the  morning  of  Saturday, 
April  12.  Andrews  took  Tom  with  him.  For 
two  days  they  hid  in  the  wooded  hills  by  day 
and  traveled  by  night,  guided  by  a  compass  and 
by  the  stars.  Then  their  scanty  supply  of  food 
was  exhausted  and  they  had  to  take  to  the  open. 
Their   rough   clothing,    stained   a   dusty   yellow 


92     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

with  the  oil  of  the  butternut,  the  chief  dye- 
stuff  the  South  then  had,  their  belts  with 
"  C.S.A." — "  Confederate  States  of  America  " 
— upon  them,  their  Confederate  rifles  (part  of 
the  spoils  of  Fort  Donelson),  and  their  gray 
slouched  hats  made  them  look  like  the 
Confederate  scouts  they  had  to  pretend 
to  be. 

Danger  lurked  about  them  and  detection 
meant  death.  They  did  their  best  to  talk  in  the 
soft  Southern  drawl  when  they  stopped  at  huts 
in  the  hills  and  asked  for  food,  but  the  drawl 
was  hard  for  a  Northern  tongue  to  master  and 
more  than  one  bent  old  woman  or  shy  and 
smiling  girl  started  with  suspicion  at  the  strange 
accents  of  these  "  furriners."  The  men  of  the 
hills  were  all  in  the  army  or  all  in  hiding.  On 
the  fourth  day  they  reached  a  log-hut  or  rather 
a  home  made  of  two  log-huts,  with  a  floored 
and  roofed  space  between  them,  a  sort  of  open- 
air  room  where  all  the  household  life  went  on 
when  good  weather  permitted.  An  old,  old 
woman  sat  in  the  sunshine,  her  hands  busy  with 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     93 

a  rag  quilt,  her  toothless  gums  busy  with  hold- 
ing her  blackened  clay  pipe.  Behind  her  sat  her 
granddaughter,  busy  too  with  her  spinning 
wheel.  The  two  women  with  their  home  as  a 
background  made  a  pleasing  and  a  peaceful 
picture. 

'*  Howdy,"  said  Andrews. 

The  wheel  stopped.  The  quilt  lay  untouched 
upon  the  old  woman's  lap.  She  took  her  pipe 
from  her  mouth. 

"  Howdy,"  said  she. 

The  conversation  stopped.  The  hill-folk  are 
not  quick  of  speech. 

*'  Please,  ma'am,  may  I  have  a  drink  of  milk?  " 
asked  Tom. 

"  Sairey,"  called  the  old  dame,  "  you  git  sum 
milk." 

Sairey  started  up  from  her  spinning  wheel,  try- 
ing to  hide  her  bare  feet  with  her  short  skirt 
and  not  succeeding,  and  walked  back  of  the 
house  to  the  *'  spring-house,"  a  square  cupboard 
built  over  a  neighboring  spring.  It  was  dark 
and  cool  and  was  the  only  refrigerator  the  hill- 


94     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

folk  knew.  While  she  was  away,  her  grand- 
mother began  to  talk.  The  man  and  boy  would 
much  rather  she  had  kept  still.  For  she  peered 
at  them  suspiciously,  and  said: 

''  How  duz  I  know  you  uns  ain't  Yankees?  I 
hearn  thar  wuz  a  right  smart  heap  o'  Yankee 
sojers  not  fur  off'n  hereabouts." 

At  this  moment  Sairey  fortunately  returned. 
She  brought  in  her  brown  hand  an  old  glass 
goblet,  without  a  standard,  but  filled  to  the  brim 
with  a  foaming  mixture  that  looked  like  deli- 
cious milk.  Alas!  Tom,  who  loathed  butter- 
milk, was  now  to  learn  that  in  the  hills  *'  milk  " 
meant  ''  buttermilk."  He  should  have  asked  for 
"  sweet  milk."  Sairey  handed  him  the  goblet 
with  a  shy  grace,  blushing  a  little  as  the  boy's 
hand  touched  hers.  He  lifted  it  eagerly  to  his 
thirsty  lips,  took  a  long  draught,  and  sputtered 
and  gagged.  But  the  mistake  was  in  his  asking 
and  the  girl  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  to  get 
him  what  she  thought  he  wanted.  He  was  a 
boy,  but  he  was  a  gentleman.  He  swallowed 
the  nauseous  stuf¥  to  the  last  drop,  and  made  his 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     95 

best  bow  as  he  thanked  her.  Suddenly  the  old 
woman  said  to  him : 

"Where  wuz  you  born,  bub?" 

''  New — New "     stammered     Tom.       His 

tongue  did  not  lend  itself  readily  to  a  lie,  even 
in  his  country's  cause.  When  he  was  still  too 
young-  to  understand  what  the  words  meant,  his 
mother  had  told  him :  ''  A  lie  soils  a  boy's 
mouth."  As  he  grew  older,  she  had  dinned  that 
big  truth  into  his  small  mind.  Now,  taken  by 
surprise,  the  habit  of  his  young  life  asserted 
itself  and  the  tell-tale  truth  that  he  had  been 
born  in  New  York  was  on  his  unsoiled  lips, 
when  Andrews  finished  the  sentence  for  him. 

"  New  Orleans,"  said  Andrews,  coolly. 

"  He  don't  talk  that-a-way,"  grumbled  the  old 
beldam. 

"  He  was  raised  up  No'th,"  Andrews  ex- 
plained, ''  but  soon  as  this  yer  onpleasantness 
began,  he  cum  Souf  to  fight  for  we-uns." 

Andrews  had  overdone  his  dialect. 

"  Sairey,"  commanded  the  old  woman,  "  put 
up  the  flag." 


96     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  Why,  granma,"  pleaded  Sairey  from  where 
she  had  taken  refuge  behind  her  grandmother's 
chair,  ''what's  the  use?" 

"  Chile,  you  hear  me?     You  put  up  the  flag." 

From  her  refuge,  Sairey  held  out  her  hands 
in  a  warning  gesture,  and  then,  before  she  en- 
tered one  of  the  log-houses,  she  pointed  to  a  cart- 
track  that  wound  up  the  hill  before  the  hut. 
She  came  out  with  a  Confederate  flag,  made  of 
part  of  an  old  red  petticoat  with  white  stripes 
sewn  across  it.  It  was  fastened  upon  a  long 
sapling.  She  put  the  staff  into  a  rude  socket  in 
front  of  the  platform.  As  she  passed  Tom  in 
order  to  do  this,  she  whispered  to  him :  "  You- 
uns  run ! " 

"What  wuz  you  sayin'  to  Bub,  thar?  "  her 
grandmother  asked  in  anger. 

''  I  wuzn't  sayin'  nuthin'  to  nobuddy,"  Sarah 
replied. 

But  Andrews'  ears,  sharper  than  the  old 
woman's,  sharpened  by  fear,  had  caught  the 
words. 

"  We-uns'll  haf  to  go,"  he  remarked.     ''  You- 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     97 

uns  haz  bin  right  down   good  to  us.     Thanky, 


ma'am." 


a 


Jes'  wait  a  minute,"  the  old  woman  an- 
swered. "  I'll  give  you  somethin'  fer  yer  to  eat 
as  ye  mosey  'long." 

She  walked  slowly,  apparently  with  pain,  into 
the  dark  log-room.  Sairey  wrung  her  hand  and 
whispered:  "Run,  run.  Take  the  cart-track." 
Instantly  the  grandmother  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  her  old  eyes  flashing,  a  double- 
barreled  shot-gun  in  her  shaking  hands.  She 
tried  to  cover  both  man  and  boy,  as  she 
screamed  at  them : 

*' You-uns  stay  in  yer  tracks,  you  Yankees! 
My  man'll  know  what  to  do  with  you-uns." 

Their  guns  were  at  her  feet.  There  w^as  no 
way  to  get  them,  even  if  they  would  have  used 
them  against  a  woman. 

"  Run !  "  shouted  Andrews  and  bounded  to- 
wards the  cart-track. 

Tom  sprang  after  him,  but  not  in  time  to 
escape  a  few  birdshot  which  the  old  woman's 
gun  sent  flying  after  him.     The  sharp  sting  of 


98     Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

them  redoubled  his  speed.  The  second  barrel 
sent  its  load  far  astray.  They  had  run  just  in 
time,  for  from  another  hilltop  behind  the  hut 
a  dozen  armed  men  came  plunging  down  to  the 
house,  shouting  after  the  scared  fugitives.  The 
raising  of  the  flag  had  been  the  agreed-upon 
signal  for  their  coming.  Sairey's  father  and  sev- 
eral other  men  had  taken  to  the  nearby  hills  to 
avoid  being  impressed  into  the  Confederate 
army,  but  they  adored  the  Confederacy,  up  to 
the  point  of  fighting  for  it,  and  they  v^ould  have 
rejoiced  to  capture  Andrews  and  Tom.  The  old 
woman's  eyes  and  ears  had  pierced  the  thin  dis- 
guise of  the  raiders.  So  she  had  forced  her 
granddaughter  to  fly  the  flag  and  the  girl,  afraid 
to  disobey  her  fierce  old  grandmother  but  loath 
to  see  the  boy  she  had  liked  at  first  sight  cap- 
tured, had  warned  him  to  flee.  Man  and  boy 
were  out  of  gunshot,  but  still  in  sight,  when 
their  pursuers  reached  the  house,  yelled  with 
joy  to  see  the  abandoned  guns,  and  ran  up  the 
cart-track  like  hounds  hot  upon  the  scent.  As 
Tom  and  Andrews  panted  to  the  hilltop,  they 


\      Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout     99 

saw  why  Sairey  had  bidden  them  take  the  cart- 
track.  At  the  summit,  it  branched  into  half  a 
dozen  lanes  which  wound  through  a  pine  forest. 
Lanes  and  woodlands  were  covered  with  pine- 
needles,  the  deposit  of  years,  which  rose  elastic 
under  their  flying  feet  and  left  no  marks  by 
which  they  could  be  tracked.  And  beyond  the 
forest  was  a  vast  laurel-brake  in  which  a  regi- 
ment could  have  hidden,  screened  from  discov- 
ery save  by  chance.  It  gave  the  fugitives  shelter 
and  safety.  Once  they  heard  the  far-off  voices 
of  their  pursuers,  but  only  once.  Ere  many 
hours  they  had  the  added  security  of  the  night. 
When  they  found  a  hiding-place,  beside  a  tiny 
brook  that  flowed  at  the  roots  of  the  laurel- 
bushes,  Tom  found  that  his  wound,  forgotten  in 
the  fierce  excitement  of  the  flight,  had  begun  to 
pain  him.  His  left  shoulder  grew  stiff.  When 
Andrews  examined  it,  all  it  needed  was  a  little 
care.  Three  or  four  birdshot  had  gone  through 
clothing  and  skin,  but  they  lay  close  beneath  the 
skin,  little  blue  lumps,  with  tiny  smears  of  red 
blood   in    the    skin's    smooth   whiteness.      They 


100   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

were  picked  out  with  the  point  of  a  knife.  The 
cool  water  of  the  brook  washed  away  the  blood 
and  stopped  the  bleeding.  Andrews  tore  off  a 
bit  of  his  own  shirt,  soaked  it  in  the  brook,  and 
bandaged  the  shoulder  in  quite  a  good  iirst-aid- 
to-the-injured  way.  Tom  and  he  were  none  the 
worse,  except  for  the  loss  of  their  guns.  And 
that  was  the  less  serious  because  both  knives 
and  pistols  were  still  in  their  belts. 

They  slept  that  night  in  the  laurel-brake,  for- 
getting their  hunger  in  the  soundness  of  their 
sleep.  Just  after  dawn,  they  were  startled  to 
hear  a  human  voice.  But  it  was  the  voice  of  a 
gentle  girl.  It  kept  calling  aloud  ''  Coo,  boss, 
coo,  boss,"  while  every  now  and  then  it  said  in 
lower  tones:  ''Is  you  Yanks  hyar?  Hyar's 
suthin'  to  eat."  At  first  they  thought  it  was  a 
trap  and  lay  still.  Finally,  however,  spurred  by 
hunger,  they  crept  out  of  their  hiding-place  and 
found  it  was  Sairey  who  was  calling  them. 
When  she  saw  them,  she  ran  towards  them, 
while  the  cows  she  had  collected  from  their  pas- 
ture stared  with  dull  amazement. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   loi 

"Is  you-uns  hurt?"  she  asked,  clasping  her 
hands  in  anxiety. 

Reassured  as  to  this,  she  produced  the  cold 
cornbread  and  bacon  she  had  taken  from 
the  spring-house  when  she  left  home  that 
morning  for  her  daily  task  of  gathering  the 
family  cows.  Man  and  boy  bolted  down  the 
food. 

"  You're  good  to  us,  Sairey,"  said  Tom. 

"  Dunno  as  I  ought  to  help  you-uns,"  the  girl 
replied,  peering  slyly  out  of  her  big  sunbonnet 
and  digging  her  brown  toes  into  the  earth,  "  but 
I  dun  it,  kase — kase — I  jes'  had  to.  Kin  you 
get  away  today?  " 
We'll  try." 
Whar  be  you  goin'?  '* 

Should  they  tell  her  where  they  were  going? 
It  was  a  risk,  but  they  took  it.  They  were  glad 
they  did,  for  Sairey  was  not  only  eager  to  help 
them  on  their  way,  but  could  be  of  real  aid. 
Once  in  her  life  she  had  been  at  Big  Shanty. 
She  told  them  of  a  short  cut  through  the  hills, 
by   which   they   would   pass   only   one    "  settle- 


(< 


f( 


102   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

mint,"  as  the  infrequent  clearings  in  the  hills 
were  called. 

"  When  you-uns  git  to  Old  Man  Tomblin*s 
settle;;^/H^"  said  Sairey,  "  I  'low  you-uns  better 
stand  at  the  fence  corner  and  holler.  Old  Man 
Tomblin's  spry  with  his  gun  sometimes,  when 
Jurriners  don't  do  no  hollerin'.  But  when  he 
comes  out,  you-uns  tell  him  Old  ^lan  Gernt's 
Sairey  told  you  he'd  take  care  of  you-uns. 
'N  he  will.  'X  you  kin  tell  Bud  Tomblin — no, 
you-uns  needn't  tell  Bud  nothin'.     Good-by." 

The  hill-girl  held  out  her  hand.  She  looked  up 
to  Andrews  and  smiled  as  she  shook  hands.  She 
looked  down  at  Tom — she  was  half  a  head  taller 
than  he — and  smiled  again  as  she  shook  hands. 
Then  suddenly  she  stooped  and  kissed  the 
startled  boy.  Then  she  fled  back  along  the  lane 
by  which  she  had  come,  leaving  the  placid  cows 
and  the  thankful  man  and  boy  behind  her.  With 
a  flutter  of  butternut  skirt  and  a  twinkle  of  bare, 
brown  feet,  she  vanished  from  their  sight. 

Thanks  to  her  directions,  they  found  Old  ]Man 
Tomblin's   settle;;//;2f   without    difiiculty.      They 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   103 

duly  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  sagging  rail  fence 
and  there  duly  *'  hollered."  Old  Man  Tomblin 
and  Bud  Tomblin  came  out  of  the  cabin,  each 
with  a  gun,  and  were  proceeding  to  study  the 
*'  furriners  "  before  letting  them  come  in,  when 
Andrews  repeated  what  Old  Man  Gernt's  Sairey 
had  told  them  to  say.  There  was  an  instant 
welcome.  Bud  Tomblin  was  even  more  anxious 
than  his  father  to  do  anything  Sairey  Gernt 
wanted  done.  The  fugitives'  story  that  they  had 
been  scouting  near  General  Mitchell's  line  of 
march  and  had  lost  their  guns  and  nearly  lost 
themselves  in  a  raid  by  Northern  cavalry  was 
accepted  without  demur.  Old  ^Irs.  Tomblin, 
decrepit  with  the  early  decrepitude  of  the  hill- 
folk,  whose  hard  living  conditions  make  women 
old  at  forty  and  venerable  at  fifty,  cackled  a 
welcome  to  them  from  the  corner  of  the  fire- 
place where  she  sat  "  dipping  "  snuff.  *'  Lidy  " 
Tomblin,  the  eldest  daughter,  helped  and  hin- 
dered by  the  rest  of  a  brood  of  children,  took 
care  of  their  comfort.  They  feasted  on  the  best 
the  humble  household  had  to  offer.     They  slept 


104  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

soundly,  albeit  eight  other  people,  including  Mr, 
and  Mrs.  Tomblin  and  Lidy,  slept  in  the  same 
room.  In  the  morning  they  were  given  a  boun- 
tiful breakfast  and  were  bidden  good-by  as  old 
friends. 

"  I  hate  to  deceive  good  people  like  the 
Tomblins,"  said  Tom,  when  they  were  out  of 
earshot. 

"  Sometimes  the  truth  is  too  precious  to  be 
told,"  laughed  Andrews. 

But  Tom  continued  to  be  troubled  in  mind  as 
he  tramped  along.  He  made  up  his  mind  to 
fight  for  his  country,  the  next  time  he  had  a 
chance,  in  some  other  way.  Telling  a  lie  and 
living  a  lie  were  hateful  to  him. 

The  next  morning  found  them  at  Big  Shanty, 
a  tiny  Georgia  village,  which  the  war  had  made 
a  great  Confederate  camp.  It  was  the  appointed 
day,  Saturday,  April  12,  1862.  Of  the  twenty- 
two  men  who  had  started  with  Andrews, 
eighteen  met  that  morning  at  Big  Shanty.  The 
train  for  Chattanooga  stopped  there  for  break- 
fast on  those  infrequent  days  when  it  did  not 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    105 

arrive  so  late  that  its  stop  was  for  dinner.  It 
was  what  is  called  a  '*  mixed  "  train,  both  freight 
and  passenger,  with  many  freight  cars  following 
the  engine  and  a  tail  of  a  couple  of  shabby 
passenger  cars.  On  this  particular  morning  it 
surprised  everybody,  including  its  own  train- 
crew,  by  being  on  time.  Passengers  and  crew 
swarmed  in  to  breakfast.  The  train  was  de- 
serted. The  time  for  the  great  adventure  had 
come. 

Before  the  train  was  seized,  one  thing  must 
be  done.  The  telegraph  wire  between  Big 
Shanty  and  Chattanooga  must  be  cut.  If  this 
were  left  intact,  their  flight,  sure  to  be  discov- 
ered as  soon  as  the  train-crew  finished  their  brief 
breakfast,  would  end  at  the  next  station,  put  on 
guard  by  a  telegram.  To  Tom,  as  the  youngest 
and  most  agile  of  the  party,  the  task  of  cutting 
the  wire  had  been  assigned.  He  was  already  at 
the  spot  selected  for  the  attempt,  a  clump  of 
trees  a  hundred  yards  from  the  station,  where 
the  wire  was  screened  from  sight  by  the  foliage. 
As  soon  as  the  train  came  in,  Tom  started  to 


io6  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

climb  the  telegraph-pole.  He  had  just  started 
when  he  heard  a  most  unwelcome  sound. 

"  Hey,  thar!     What's  you  doin'?  " 

He  turned  his  head  and  saw  a  Confederate 
sentry  close  beside  him.  He  recognized  him  as 
a  man  with  whom  he  had  been  chatting  around 
a  camp-fire  early  that  morning.  His  name  was 
Bill  Coombs.    Tom's  ready  wit  stood  by  him. 

"Why,  Bill,"  he  said,  "glad  to  see  you. 
Somethin's  wrong  with  the  wire.  The  Cunnel's 
sent  me  to  fix  it.     Give  me  a  boost,  will  ye?" 

The  unsuspicious  Bill  gave  him  a  boost  and 
watched  him  without  a  thought  of  his  doing 
anything  wrong  while  Tom  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  rickety  pole,  cut  the  one  wire  it  carried, 
fastened  the  ends  to  the  pole  so  that  from  the 
ground  nobody  could  tell  it  was  cut,  and 
climbed  down.  Bill  urged  him  to  stay  and  talk 
awhile,  but  Tom  reminded  him  that  sentries 
mustn't  talk,  then  he  strolled  at  first  and  soon 
ran  towards  the  station.  He  had  to  run  to  catch 
the  train.  The  instant  Andrews  saw  him  return- 
ing, he  sprang  into  the  cab  of  the  locomotive. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    107 

One  of  his  men  had  already  uncoupled  the  first 
three  freight  cars  from  the  rest  of  the  train.  All 
the  men  jumped  into  the  cab  or  the  tender  or 
swarmed  up  the  freight-car  ladders.  Andrews 
jerked  the  throttle  wide  open.  The  engine 
jumped  forward,  the  tender  and  the  three  cars 
bounding  after  it.  The  crowd  upon  the  platform 
gaped  after  the  retreating  train,  without  the 
slightest  idea  of  what  was  happening  under  their 
very  noses.  A  boy  came  running  like  an  ante- 
lope from  the  end  of  the  platform.  He  jumped 
for  the  iron  step  of  the  locomotive,  was  clutched 
by  a  half-dozen  hands  and  drawn  aboard.  But 
as  he  jumped,  he  heard  a  voice  he  had  reason 
to  remember  call  out: 

"  They're  Yanks.  That's  Lieutenant  Strong, 
a  Yankee  !     Stop  'em  !     Shoot  'em  !  " 

Livid  with  rage,  his  long  black  hair  streaming 
in  the  wind  as  he  ran  after  them,  Wilkes  Booth 
fired  his  pistol  at  them,  while  the  motley  crowd 
his  cry  had  aroused  sent  a  scattering  volley 
after  the  train.  Nobody  was  hurt  then,  but  the 
danger  to  everybody  had  just  begun. 


io8   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

There  was  instant  pursuit.  The  train-crew, 
startled  by  the  sound  of  the  departing  train, 
came  running  from  the  station.  They  actually 
started  to  run  along  the  track  after  the  flying 
locomotive.  They  jerked  a  hand-car  off  a  siding 
and  chased  the  fugitives  with  that.  At  a  station 
not  far  off,  they  found  a  locomotive  lying  with 
steam  up.  They  seized  that  and  thundered 
ahead.  Now  hunters  and  hunted  were  on  more 
even  terms.  The  hunters  reached  Kingston, 
Georgia,  within  four  minutes  after  the  hunted 
had  left.  The  latter  had  had  to  make  frequent 
stops,  to  cut  the  wires,  to  take  on  fuel,  to  bundle 
into  the  freight  cars  ties  that  could  be  used  to 
start  fires  for  the  burning  of  bridges,  and  to  tear 
up  an  occasional  rail.  This  last  expedient  de- 
layed their  pursuers  but  little.  When  a  missing 
rail  was  sighted,  the  Confederates  stopped,  tore 
up  a  rail  behind  them,  slipped  it  into  the  vacant 
place,  and  rushed  ahead  again. 

Andrews  was  running  the  captured  train  on 
its  regular  time  schedule,  so  he  could  not  exceed 
a    certain    speed.      From    Kingston,    however, 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   109 

where  the  only  other  train  of  the  day  met  this 
one,  he  expected  a  free  road  and  plenty  of  time 
to  burn  every  bridge  he  passed.  He  did  meet 
the  regular  train  at  Kingston,  but  alas!  it  car- 
ried on  its  engine  a  red  flag.  That  meant  that 
a  second  section  of  the  same  train  was  coming 
behind  it.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait 
for  this  second  section.  The  railroad  was  single- 
track,  so  trains  could  pass  only  where  there  was 
a  siding.  But  in  every  moment  of  waiting  there 
lurked  the  danger  of  detection.  Southerners, 
soldiers,  and  civilians,  crowded  about  the  loco- 
motive as  she  lay  helplessly  still  on  the  Kingston 
sidetrack,  puffing  away  precious  steam  and  pre- 
cious time. 

'' Whar's  yer  passengers?"  asked  one  man. 
"  I  cum  hyar  to  meet  up  with  Cunnel  Tompkins. 
Whar's  he'n  the  rest  of  'em?  " 

"  We  were  ordered  to  drop  everything  at  Big 
Shanty,"  explained  Andrews,  **  except  these 
three  cars.  They're  full  of  powder.  I'm  on 
General  Beauregard's  staf¥  and  am  taking  the 
stufiF    to    him    at    Corinth.      Jove,    there's    the 


no  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

whistle  of  the  second  section.  I'm  glad  to 
hear  it." 

He  was  indeed  glad.  At  one  of  his  stops,  he 
had  bundled  most  of  his  men  into  the  freight 
cars.  The  cars  were  battered  old  things  with- 
out any  locks.  If  a  carelessly  curious  hand  were 
to  slide  back  one  of  the  doors  and  reveal  within, 
not  powder,  but  armed  men,  all  their  lives  would 
pay  the  forfeit.  Andrews  was  in  the  cab  with 
engineer,  fireman,  and  Tom,  who  had  been 
helping  the  fireman  feed  wood  into  the  maw 
of  the  furnace  on  every  mile  of  the  run.  His 
young  back  ached  with  the  strain  of  the  unac- 
customed toil.  His  young  neck  felt  the  touch 
of  the  noose  that  threatened  them  all. 

''  Tom,  you  run  ahead  and  throw  that  switch 
for  us  as  soon  as  the  other  train  pulls  in,"  said 
Andrews.  ''  We  mustn't  keep  General  Beaure- 
gard waiting  for  this  powder  a  minute  longer 
than  we  can  help.  He  needs  it  to  blow  the  Yan- 
kees to  smithereens." 

So  Tom  ran  ahead,  stood  by.  the  switch  as 
the  second  section  came  in,  and  promptly  threw 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    iii 

the  switch  as  it  passed.  But  his  train  did  not 
move  and  a  brakeman  jumped  off  the  rear  plat- 
form of  the  caboose  of  the  second  section,  as  it 
slowed  down,  told  Tom  he  was  an  ass  and  a 
fool,  pushed  him  out  of  the  way  and  reset  the 
switch. 

"  You  plum  fool,"  shouted  the  brakeman, 
after  much  stronger  expressions,  *'  didn't  ye  see 
the  flag"  fur  section  three?" 

Tom  had  not  seen  it,  had  not  looked  for  it, 
but  it  was  too  true  that  the  engine  of  section 
two  also  bore  the  red  flag  that  meant  that  sec- 
tion three  was  coming  behind  it. 

Again  there  was  a  long  wait,  again  the  sense 
of  danger  closing  in  upon  them,  again  the 
thought  of  scaffold  and  rope,  again  the  necessity 
of  playing  their  parts  with  laughter  and  good- 
natured  chaff  amid  the  foes  who  thought  them 
friends.  The  slow  minutes  ticked  themselves 
away.  At  last  the  third  section  came  whistling 
and  lumbering  in.  Thank  fortune,  it  bore  no  red 
flag.  This  time  Tom  threw  the  switch  un- 
checked and  then  jumped  on  the  pufling  engine 


112   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

as    she    reached    the    main-track    and    sped    on- 
wards. 

*'  Free,  by  Jove!  "  said  Andrews,  with  a  deep 
breath  of  deep  reUef.  ''  Now  we  can  burn 
Johnny  Reb's  bridges  for  him!" 

Four  minutes  later,  while  section  three  of  the 
train  that  had  so  long  delayed  them  was  still  at 
Kingston,  a  shrieking  locomotive  rushed  into 
the  station.  Its  occupants,  shouting  a  story  of 
explanation  that  put  Kingston  into  a  frenzy, 
ran  from  it  to  an  engine  that  lay  upon  a  second 
sidetrack,  steam  up  and  ready  to  start.  They 
had  reached  Kingston  so  speedily  by  using  their 
last  pint  of  water  and  their  last  stick  of  wood. 
They  saved  precious  minutes  by  changing 
engines. 

Five  seconds  after  their  arrival,  the  station- 
agent  had  been  at  the  telegraph-key,  frantically 
pounding  out  the  call  of  a  station  beyond  An- 
drews's fleeing  train.     There  was  no  reply. 

''Wire  cut!"  he  shouted,  running  out  of  the 
station.     Of  course  that  had  been  done  by  the 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    113 

fugitives  just  out  of  sight  of  Kingston.  ''  Wire 
cut!     I  kain't  git  no  message  through." 

''We'll  take  the  message!"  answered  the 
Confederate  commander,  from  the  cab  of  the 
locomotive  that  was  already  swaying  with  her 
speed,  as  she  darted  ahead. 

They  came  near  delivering  the  message  within 
four  miles  of  Kingston.  Andrews's  men,  with  a 
most  comforting  sense  of  safety  had  stopped 
and  were  pulling  up  a  rail,  when  they  heard  the 
whistle  of  their  avenging  pursuer. 

''  Quick,  boys,  all  aboard,"  Andrews  called. 
"  They're  closer'n  I  like  to  have  'em." 

Quickly  replacing  the  rail,  the  Confederates 
came  closer  still.  Around  the  next  curve,  quite 
hidden  from  sight  until  close  upon  it,  the  fugi- 
tives had  put  a  rail  across  the  track.  It  delayed 
the  pursuit  not  one  second.  Whether  the  cow- 
catcher of  the  engine  thrust  it  aside  or  broke  it 
or  whether  the  engine  actually  jumped  it,  no- 
body knew  then  in  the  wild  excitement  of  the 
chase  and  nobody  knows  now.  The  one  thing 
certain  is  that  there  was  no  delay.     Very  likely 


114   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

the  rail  broke.  Rails  of  those  days  were  of  iron, 
not  steel,  and  throughout  the  South  they  were 
in  such  condition  that  at  the  close  of  the  Civil 
War  one  of  the  chief  Southern  railroads  was  said 
to  consist  of  *'  a  right-of-way  and  two  streaks 
of  rust."  The  locomotive  whistled  triumphantly 
and  sped  on. 

On  the  Union  train,  Tom  had  crept  back  to 
the  rear  car  along  the  rolling,  jumping  car- 
roofs,-  with  orders  to  set  it  on  fire  and  stand 
ready  to  cut  it  ofif.  The  men  inside  arranged  a 
pile  of  ties,  thrust  fat  pine  kindling  among  them, 
and  touched  the  mass  with  a  match.  It  burst 
into  flame  as  they  scuttled  to  the  roof  and 
passed  to  the  car  ahead.  A  long  covered 
wooden  bridge  loomed  up  before  them.  Half- 
way across  it,  Andrews  stopped,  dropped  the 
flaming  car,  and  started  ahead  again.  In  a  very 
few  minutes  the  bridge  would  have  been  a  burn- 
ing mass,  but  the  few  minutes  were  not  to  be 
had.  The  Confederate  locomotive  was  now 
close  upon  them.  It  dashed  upon  the  bridge, 
drove  the  burning  car  across  the  bridge  before 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    115 

it,  pushed  it  upon  a  neighboring  sidetrack  and 
again  whistled  triumphantly  as  it  took  up  the 
fierce  chase.  The  two  remaining  cars  were  de- 
tached, one  by  one,  but  in  vain.  The  game 
was  up. 

"  Guess  we're  gone,"  said  Andrews,  tranquilly, 
as  he  looked  back  over  the  tender,  now  almost 
empty  of  wood,  to  the  smokestack  that  was 
belching  sooty  vapor  within  a  mile  of  them. 
*'  By  this  time,  they've  got  a  telegram  ahead  of 
us.  Stop  'round  that  next  curve  in  those  woods. 
We  must  take  to  the  woods.  Don't  try  to  keep 
together.  Scatter.  Steer  by  the  North  Star. 
Make  the  Union  lines  if  you  can.  We've  done 
our  best." 

The  engine  checked  its  mad  pace,  slowed, 
stopped. 

"  Good-by,  boys,"  shouted  Andrews,  as  he 
sprang  from  the  engine  and  disappeared  in  the 
forest   that   there   bordered   the   track.      "  We'll 


meet  agam 


>> 


Seven  of  them  did  meet  him  again.     It  was 
upon  a  Confederate  scaiTold,  where  he  and  they 


ii6  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

were  hung.  The  other  six  of  the  fourteen  who 
were  captured  were  exchanged,  a  few  months 
later.  Three  others  reached  the  Union  Hnes 
within  a  fortnight,  unhurt.  But  where  was  Tom 
Strong? 


CHAPTER  VI 

Tom  up  a  Tree — Dm  the  Confederate  Officer 
See  Him? — A  Fugitive  Slave  Guides  Him — 
Buying  a  Boat  in  the  Dark — Adrift  in  the 
Enemy's  Country. 

A  T  first,  Tom  was  up  a  tree.  When  he 
jumped  from  the  abandoned  locomotive, 
his  mind  was  working  as  quickly  as  his  body. 
He  reasoned  that  the  Confederates  would  ex- 
pect them  all  to  run  as  fast  and  as  far  away  as 
they  could;  that  they  would  run  after  them; 
that  they  would  very  probably  catch  him,  utterly 
tired  out  as  he  was,  so  tired  that  even  fear 
could  not  lend  wings  to  his  leaden  feet;  that  the 
pursuit,  however,  would  not  last  long,  because 
the  Confederates  would  wish  to  reach  a  station 
soon,  in  order  both  to  report  their  success  and 
to  send  out  a  general  alarm  and  so  start  a  gen- 
ii? 


ii8   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

eral  search  for  the  fugitives;  and  that  he  would  ] 

best  hide  as  near  at  hand  as  might  be.  In  other 
words,  he  thought,  quite  correctly,  that  the  best 
thing  to  do  is  exactly  what  your  enemy  does 
not  expect  you  to  do.  He  picked  out  a  big  oak 
tree  quite  close  to  the  track,  its  top  a  mass  of 
thick-set  leaves  such  as  a  Southern  April  brings 
to  a  Southern  oak.  He  climbed  it,  nestled  into 
a  sheltered  crotch  high  above  the  ground,  and 
waited.  He  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  He 
could  still  hear  the  noise  of  his  comrades  plung- 
ing through  the  woods  when  the  Confederate 
engine  drew  up  beneath  his  feet.  Before  it 
stopped,  the  armed  men  who  clustered  thick 
upon  locomotive  and  tender  were  on  the  ground 
and  running  into  the  woods.  A  gallant  figure 
in  Confederate  gray  led  them.  He  heard  the 
rush  of  them,  then  a  shot  or  two,  exultant  yells, 
and  ere  long  the  tramp  of  returning  feet.  They 
came  back  in  half  a  dozen  groups,  bringing  with 
them  three  of  his  comrades  in  flight,  less  for- 
tunate than  he,  at  least  less  fortunate  up  to  that 
time.     Andrews  was  one  of  the  prisoners.     He 


« 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    119 

had  slipped  and  fallen,  had  strained  a  sinew,  and 
had  lain  helpless  until  his  pursuers  reached  him. 
Tom,  peering  cautiously  through  his  leafy 
shelter,  saw  that  his  late  leader  was  limping  and 
was  held  upright  by  a  kindly  Confederate,  who 
had  passed  his  arm  about  him. 

"  'Tain't  fur,"  said  his  captor,  cheerily, 
"  hyar's  the  injine." 

"  The  Yank's  goin'  fur,"  sneered  a  soldier  of 
another  kind,  "  he's  goin'  to  Kingdom  Cum, 
blast  him !  "  He  lifted  his  fist  to  strike  the  help- 
less man,  but  the  young  officer  in  command 
caught  the  upraised  arm. 

"  None  of  that,"  he  said,  sternly.  ''  Ameri- 
cans don't  treat  prisoners  that  way.  You're 
under  arrest.  Put  down  your  gun  and  climb 
into  the  tender.  Do  it  now  and  do  it  quick." 
Sulkily  the  brute  obeyed.  "  Lift  him  in,"  went 
on  the  officer  to  the  man  who  was  supporting 
Andrews.  This  was  gently  done.  The  othfer 
two  captives  climbed  in.  So  did  the  Confeder- 
ates.    Their  officer  turned  to  them. 

"  You've    done    your    duty    well,"    he    said. 


120   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  You've    been    chasing    brave    men.      They've 

done  their  duty  w^ell  too. 

"  *  For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 
Was  never  seen  before.' " 

Tom  started  with  surprise.  The  young  officer 
w^as  quoting  from  Macaulay's  "  Lays  of  Ancient 
Rome."  The  boy  had  stood  beside  his  mother's 
knee  when  she  read  him  the  "  Lays  "  and  had 
often  since  read  them  himself. 

That  start  of  surprise  had  almost  been  Tom's 
undoing.  He  had  rustled  the  leaves  about  him. 
A  tiny  shower  of  pale  green  things  fell  to  the 
ground. 

"  Captain,  there's  somebody  up  that  tree," 
said  a  soldier,  pointing  straight  at  the  point 
where  Tom  sat.     "  I  heard  him  rustle." 

The  captain  looked  up.  The  boy  always 
thought  the  officer  saw  him  and  spared  him, 
partly  because  of  his  youth — he  knew  the  fate 
the  prisoners  faced — and  partly  because  of  his 
admiration  for  "  the  gallant  feat  of  arms."  Be 
that  as  it  may,  he  certainly  took  no  step  just 
then  to  make  another  prisoner.  Instead  he 
laughed  and  answered: 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   121 

''  That's  a  'possum.  We  haven't  time  for  a 
coon-hunt  just  now.  Get  ahead.  We'll  send  an 
alarm  from  the  next  station  and  so  bag  all  the 
Yankees." 

The  engine,  pushing  the  recaptured  one  be- 
fore it,  started  and  disappeared  around  the  end 
of  the  short  curve  upon  which  Andrews  had 
made  his  final  stop.  For  the  moment  at  least, 
Tom  was  safe.  But  he  knew  the  hue-and-cry 
would  sweep  the  country.  Everybody  would  be 
on  the  lookout  for  stray  Yankees.  And  as 
everybody  would  think  the  estrays  were  all 
going  North,  Tom  decided  to  go  South.  He  slid 
down  the  tree,  looked  at  his  watch,  studied  the 
sunlight  to  learn  the  points  of  the  compass,  drew 
his  belt  tighter  to  master  the  hunger  that  now 
assailed  him,  and  so  began  his  southward  tramp, 
a  boy,  alone,  in  the  enemy's  country. 

That  part  of  Georgia  is  a  beautiful  country 
and  Tom  loved  beauty,  but  it  did  not  appeal  to 
him  that  afternoon.  He  was  hungry;  he  was 
tired;  the  excitement  that  had  upheld  him 
through    the   hours    of   flight   on    the    captured 


122   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

engine  was  over.  He  plodded  through  a  Httle 
belt  of  forest  and  found  himself  in  a  broad  val- 
ley, with  a  ribbon  of  water  flowing  through  it. 
He  stumbled  across  plowed  fields  to  the  little 
river.  A  dusty  road,  with  few  marks  of  travel, 
meandered  beside  the  stream.  He  was  evi- 
dently near  no  main  highway.  Not  far  away  a 
planter's  home,  with  a  stately  portico,  gleamed 
in  the  sunlight  through  its  screen  of  trees.  In 
the  distance  lay  a  little  village.  There  was  food 
in  both  places  and  he  must  have  food.  To  which 
should  he  go?  It  was  decided  for  him  that  he 
was  to  go  to  neither.  As  he  slipped  down  the 
river  bank,  to  quench  his  burning  thirst  and  to 
wash  his  dusty  face  and  hands,  he  almost 
stepped  upon  a  negro  who  lay  full  length  at  the 
foot  of  the  bank,  hidden  behind  a  tree  that  had 
been  uprooted  by  the  last  flood  and  left  stranded 
there.  The  boy  was  scared  by  the  unex- 
pected meeting,  but  not  half  as  much  as  the 
negro. 

"  Oh,   Massa,"   said   the   negro,   on   his   knees 
with    outstretched    hands,    *'  don'    tell    on    me. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   123 

Massa.  I'll  be  your  slabe,  Massa.  Jes'  take  me 
with  you.  Please  don't  tell  on  me.  You  kin 
make  a  lot  o'  money  sellin'  me,  Massa.  Please 
lemme  go  wid  you." 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  Tom. 

"Morris,  Massa." 

"  Where  did  you  come  from?  " 

"  From  dat  house,  Massa."  He  pointed  to 
the  big  house  nearby. 

"And  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

Little  by  little,  Morris  (reassured  when  he 
found  Tom  was  a  Northern  soldier  and  like  him- 
self a  fugitive)  told  his  story.  He  had  been 
born  on  this  plantation.  Reared  as  a  house- 
servant,  he  could  read  a  little.  He  had  learned 
from  the  newspapers  his  master  took  that  a 
Northern  army  was  not  far  away.  He  made  up 
his  mind  to  try  for  freedom.  His  master  kept 
dogs  to  track  runaways,  but  no  dog  can  track 
a  scent  in  running  water.  It  was  not  probable 
his  flight  would  be  discovered  until  after  night- 
fall. So  he  had  stolen  to  his  hiding-place  in  the 
afternoon,    intending    to    wade    down    the    tiny 


124  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

stream  as  soon  as  darkness  came.  Two  miles 
below,  the  stream  merged  itself  into  a  larger 
one.  There  he  hoped  to  steal  a  boat,  hide  by 
day  and  paddle  by  night  until  he  reached  the 
Tennessee.  "  Dat  ribber's  plum  full  o'  Massa 
Lincum's  gunboats,"  he  assured  Tom. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  live  on  the  journey?  *' 
asked  the  boy. 

"  I  spec'  dey's  hen-roosts  about,"  quoth  Mor- 
ris wnth  a  chuckle,  "  and  I'se  got  a-plenty  to  eat 
to  start  wid.     Dis  darkey  don'  reckon  to  starve 


none." 


''Give  me  something  to  eat,  quick!" 
Morris  willingly  produced  cornpone  and 
bacon  from  a  sack  beside  him.  Tom  wanted  to 
eat  it  all,  but  he  knew  these  precious  supplies 
must  be  kept  as  long  as  possible,  so  he  did  not 
eat  more  than  half  of  them.  The  two  agreed 
to  keep  together  in  their  flight  for  freedom.  As 
soon  as  it  was  dark,  they  began  their  wading. 
The  two  miles  seemed  an  endless  distance.  The 
noises  of  the  night  kept  their  senses  on  the 
jump.     Once  a  distant  bloodhound's  bay  scared 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    125 

Morris  so  much  that  his  white  teeth  clattered 
Hke  castanets.  Once  the  "  too-whit-too  "  of  a 
nearby  owl  sent  Tom  into  an  ecstasy  of  terror. 
He  fairly  clung  to  Morris,  who,  just  ahead  of 
him,  was  guiding  his  steps  through  the  shallow 
water.  When  he  found  he  had  been  scared  by 
an  owl,  he  was  so  ashamed  that  he  forced  him- 
self to  be  braver  thereafter.  At  last  they 
reached  their  first  goal,  the  larger  river.  Here 
Morris's  knowledge  of  the  ground  made  him 
the  temporary  commander  of  the  expedition. 
He  knew  of  a  little  house  nearby,  the  home  of 
a  "  poor  white,"  who  earned  part  of  his  pre- 
carious livelihood  by  fishing.  IMorris  knew  just 
where  he  kept  his  boat.  There  w^as  no  light  in 
the  little  house  and  no  sound  from  it  as  they 
crept  stealthily  along  the  bank  to  the  tree  where 
the  boat  was  tied.  Tom  drew  his  knife  to  cut 
the  rope. 

"  No,  Massa,"  whispered  IMorris.  "  Not  dat- 
a-way. Ef  it's  cut,  dey'll  know  it's  bin  tuck  and 
dey'll  s'picion  us.  Lemme  untie  it.  Den  dey'll 
t'ink  it's  cum  loose  and  floated  away.     'N  dey'll 


126  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

not  hurry  after  it.  Dey'll  t'ink  dey  kin  fin'  it  in 
some  cove  any  time  tomorrer." 

Morris  was  right.  It  did  not  take  him  long 
to  untie  the  clumsy  knot.  Three  oars  and  some 
fishing-tackle  lay  in  the  flat-bottomed  boat. 
They  got  into  it,  pushed  off,  and  floated  down 
the  current  without  a  sound.  Morris  steered 
with  an  oar  at  the  stern.  Once  out  of  earshot, 
they  rowed  as  fast  as  the  darkness,  intensified 
by  the  shadows  of  the  overhanging  trees,  per- 
mitted. 

Just  before  they  had  pushed  off,  Tom  had 
asked : 

"What  is  this  boat  worth,  Morris?" 

'*  Old  Massa  paid  five  dollars  fer  a  new  one 
jest  like  it,  dis  lastest  week." 

Tom's  conscience  had  told  him  that  even 
though  a  fugitive  for  his  life  in  the  enemy's 
country  he  ought  not  to  take  the  "  poor 
white's  "  boat  without  paying  for  it.  He  unbut- 
toned an  inside  pocket  in  his  shirt  and  drew  out 
a  precious  store  of  five-dollar  gold  pieces. 
There  were  twenty  of  them,   each  wrapped  in 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    127 

tissue-paper  and  the  whole  then  bound  together 
in  a  rouleau,  wrapped  in  water-proofed  silk,  so 
that  there  would  be  no  sound  of  clinking  gold 
as  he  walked.  He  figured  that  the  three  oars 
and  the  sorry  fishing  tackle  could  not  be  worth 
more  than  the  boat  was,  so  he  took  out  two 
coins  and  put  them  in  a  battered  old  pan  that 
lay  beside  the  stump  to  which  the  boat  was  tied. 
There  the  "  cracker  " — another  name  for  the 
"  poor  white  " — would  be  sure  to  see  them  in  the 
morning.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  did.  And  they 
were  worth  so  much  more  than  his  vanished 
property  that  he  was  inclined  to  think  an  angel, 
rather  than  a  thief,  had  passed  that  way.  Tom's 
conscientiousness  spoiled  Morris's  plan  of  hav- 
ing the  owner  think  the  boat  had  floated  away, 
but  the  "  cracker  "  was  glad  to  clutch  the  gold 
and  start  no  hue-and-cry.  He  was  afraid  that  if 
he  recovered  his  boat,  he  would  have  to  give  up 
the  gold.  It  was  much  cheaper  to  make 
another.     So  he  kept  still. 

And  still,  very  still,  the  fugitives  kept  as  they 
paddled  slowly  down  the  stream  until  the  first 


128   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

signs  of  dawn  sent  them  into  hiding.  They  hid 
the  boat  in  the  tall  reeds  that  fringed  the  mouth 
of  a  tiny  creek  and  they  themselves  crept  a  few 
yards  into  the  forest,  ate  very  much  less  than 
they  wanted  to  eat  of  what  was  left  of  Morris's 
scanty  store  of  food,  and  went  to  sleep.  They 
slept  until — but  that  is  another  story. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TowsER  Finds  the  Fugitives — Towser  Brings 
Uncle  Moses — Mr.  Izzard  and  His  Yankee 
Overseer,  Jake  Johnson — Tom  is  Pulled 
Down  the  Chimney — How  Uncle  Moses 
Choked  the  Overseer — The  Flight  of  the 
Four. 

•'  I  *"  HEY  slept  until  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Then  Morris  woke  up  with  a  yell.  A  dog's 
cold  nose  w^as  thrusting  itself  against  his  cheek. 
He  thought  his  master's  bloodhounds  were  upon 
him  and  that  the  whipping-post  was  the  least  he 
had  to  fear.  As  Tom,  startled  from  sound  sleep 
by  the  negro's  scream  of  terror,  sprang  to  his 
feet,  he  saw  IMorris  crouching  upon  the  ground, 
babbling  ''  Sabe  me,  good  Lord,  sabe  old  Mor- 
ris!  "  The  dog,  a  big  black-and-yellow  mongrel, 
a  very  distant  cousin  of  the  bloodhound  the 
scared  darkey  imagined  him  to  be,  was  looking 
with  a  grieved   surprise  at  the  cowering  man. 

129 


130  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    . 

He  was  a  most  good-natured  beast,  accustomed 
to  few  caresses  and  many  kicks,  and  he  had 
never  before  seen  a  man  who  was  afraid  of  him. 
As  he  turned  to  Tom,  he  saw  a  boy  who  wasn't 
afraid  of  him.  Tom,  who  had  always  been  loved 
by  dogs  and  children,  smiled  at  the  big  yellow 
mongrel,  said  '*  Come  here,  old  fellow,"  and  in 
an  instant  had  the  great  hound  licking  his  hand 
and  looking  up  to  him  with  the  brown-yellow 
eyes  full  of  a  dog's  faith  and  a  dog's  fidelity. 
These  are  great  qualities.  A  cynic  once  said: 
"  The  more  I  see  of  men  the  more  I  like  dogs." 
That  cynic  probably  got  from  men  what  he  gave 
to  them.  But  still  it  is  true  that  the  unfaltering 
faith  of  a  dog  and  a  child,  once  their  confidence 
has  been  won,  is  a  rare  and  a  precious  thing. 
Tom  patted  his  new  friend's  head.  The  big  tail 
wagged  with  joy.  The  hound  looked  reproach- 
fully at  Morris,  as  much  as  to  say:  ''See  how 
you  misunderstood  me;  I  want  to  be  friends:  but 
here  " — he  turned  and  looked  at  the  boy  who 
was  smiling  at  him — ''  here  is  my  best  friend." 
He  stayed  with  them  an  hour,  contented  and 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   131 

happy,  humbly  grateful  for  a  tiny  piece  of  meat 
they  gave  him.  Then,  as  dark  drew  near,  he 
became  uneasy.  Two  or  three  times  he  started 
as  if  to  leave  them,  turned  to  see  whether  they 
were  following  him,  looked  beseechingly  at 
them,  barked  gently,  put  his  big  paw  on  Tom's 
arm  and  pulled  at  him.  Evidently  he  wanted 
them  to  come  with  him,  but  this  they  did  not 
dare  to  do. 

"  Ef  we  lets  him  go,  he'll  bring  his  folkses 
here,"  Morris  whispered. 

*'  I  suppose  we  must  tie  him  up,"  Tom  re- 
luctantly assented.  "  I  hate  to  treat  him  that 
way,  for  he's  a  good  dog.  But  if  we  leave  him 
tied  and  push  off  in  the  boat,  he'll  howl  after  a 
while  and  his  master  will  find  him.  Take  a  bit 
of  fishing-line  and  tie  him." 

Morris  turned  towards  the  hidden  boat,  but 
the  hound,  as  if  aware  of  what  they  had  said, 
suddenly  started  for  his  hidden  home  and  van- 
ished into  the  underbrush  before  Tom  could 
catch  hold  of  him.  When  Tom  called,  he 
stopped  once  and  looked  back,  but  he  did  not 


132   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

come  back.  He  shouldered  his  way  into  the 
bushes  and  trotted  off,  with  that  amusing  air 
of  being  in  a  hurry  to  keep  a  most  important 
appointment  which  all  dogs  sometimes  show. 
And  as  he  started,  Morris  appeared  again,  with 
a  shrill  whisper:  '' De  boat's  dun  sunk  his- 
self." 

Tom  ran  to  the  bank  of  the  creek.  The  news 
was  too  true.  The  boat  had  sunk.  The  rotten 
caulking  had  dropped  from  one  of  the  rotten 
seams.  The  bow,  tied  to  a  tree  in  the  cane- 
brake,  was  high  in  air.  The  stern  was  under 
five  feet  of  water.  The  oars  had  floated  away. 
The^fishing-pole  was  afloat,  held  to  the  old  craft 
by  the  hook-and-line,  which  had  caught  in  the 
sunken  seat.  What  were  they  to  do?  They  felt 
as  a  Western  trapper  used  to  feel,  when  he  had 
lost  his  horse  and  saw  himself  compelled  to 
make  his  perilous  way  on  foot  through  a  coun- 
try swarming  with  savage  foes.    What  to  do? 

"  We  must  raise  the  boat,  Morris,  get  her  on 
shore,  turn  her  over,  caulk  her  with  something, 
make  some  paddles  somehow  and  get  off." 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   133 

They  did,  by  great  effort  and  with  much  more 
noise  than  they  hked  to  make,  drag  the  crazy 
old  craft  upon  the  bank  of  the  creek.  They 
turned  her  bottom-side  up.  The  negro  plucked 
down  a  long,  waving  mass  of  Spanish  moss  from 
a  cypress  that  grew  in  the  swampy  soil.  Chil- 
dren in  the  South  call  this  Spanish  moss  '*  old 
men's  gray  beards."  Each  long  drift  of  it  looks 
as  if  it  might  have  grown  on  the  chin  of  an  aged 
giant.  They  were  pressing  it  into  the  gaping 
seam  with  feverish  haste,  listening  the  while  for 
any  sign  of  that  dreaded  coming  of  the  big 
hound's  ''  folkses."  The  short  twilight  of  South- 
ern skies  ended.  A  deep  curtain  of  darkness  fell 
upon  them.  And  through  it  they  heard  the 
nearby  patter  of  the  dog's  paws  and  the 
shuffling  footfalls  of  a  man.  And  they  saw  the 
gleam  of  a  lantern. 

"  We'se  diskivered,  Massa  Tom,"  old  Morris 
whispered,  *'  we'se  diskivered." 

As  he  spoke,  he  slipped  over  the  bank  into  the 
creek  and  lay  in  much  his  attitude  when  Tom 
had    first    '*  diskivered "    him,    except    that    the 


134   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

water  covered  all  of  him  except  mouth  and  nose 
and  eyes.     Tom  bent  down  to  him. 

''  Hush,"  he  said,  **  keep  still.  There's  only 
one  man  coming.  The  dog's  all  right.  I'll  meet 
the  man.     You  stay  here." 

Then  he  stepped  into  a  circle  of  light  cast  by 
the  lantern  upon  a  mass  of  underbrush  and 
said,  with  a  cheerful  confidence  he  did  not 
feel : 

"  Howdy,  neighbor?  " 

The  big  yellow  dog  was  fawning  at  his  feet 
in  a  second.  A  quavering  old  voice  came  from 
behind  the  light  of  the  lantern. 

"  Howdy,  Massa,"  it  said.     ''  Is  I  intrudin'  on 


you?" 

An  old,  old  negro  shambled  up  to  him,  the 
lantern  in  one  hand,  a  ragged  hat  in  another. 
He  bowed  his  crown  of  white  kinky  hair  respect- 
fully before  the  white  boy.  There  was  no 
enemy  to  be  feared  here.  The  boy's  heart 
bounded  with  relief  and  he  laughed  as  he  an- 
swered : 

*'  No,  Uncle,  you're  not  intruding.   I'm  glad  to 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    135 

see  you.  I'm  sure  you'll  help  us.  Come  here, 
Morris." 

Morris  scrambled  up  the  bank,  the  wettest 
man  in  the  world.  His  eyeballs  shone  as  he 
neared  them.  They  shone  still  more  as  he  stood 
before  the  old  negro,  held  out  his  hand,  and  said: 

*'  Unk'  Moses,  I'se  po'erful  glad  to  meet  up 
wid  you." 

Uncle  Moses  almost  dropped  his  rude  lantern 
in  his  surprise. 

"Well,  ef  it  ain't  Massa  Pinckney's  Morris! 
Howdy,  Morris?  How  cum  so  as  you-uns  is 
here,  a-hidin'?  I  know'd  de  way  dat  ar  Towser 
wuz  a-actin'  when  he  dun  cum  home  dat  dere 
wuz  sum-un  in  de  bush  out  hyar,  but  I  neber 
s'picioned  t'wuz  you,  Morris.  Is  you  dun  run 
away?  " 

The  situation  was  soon  explained.  Uncle 
Moses  had  already  become  familiar  with  it. 
Hunted  men,  both  white  and  black,  were  no 
novelty  to  him  by  that  time.  He  had  helped 
many  of  them  on  their  scared  way.  Too  old  to 
work,  he  lived  alone  in  a  little  cabin  on  the  out- 


136   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

skirts  of  his  owner's  plantation.  He  tilled  a  tiny 
plot  of  vegetables  when  **  de  rumatiz "  per- 
mitted and  w^ith  these  and  some  rations  from 
"  de  big  house  "  he  eked  out  a  scanty  living. 
This  owner's  self-respect  had  not  prevented  his 
working  Moses  through  all  a  long  life,  with  no 
payment  except  food  and  lodging,  and  behind 
these  always  the  shadow  of  the  w^hip.  But  the 
slave's  self-respect  required  him  to  work  for  the 
hand  that  fed  him,  so  long  as  failing  strength 
permitted.  All  he  could  do  now  was  to  scare 
crows  from  the  cornfield,  but  that  he  could  do 
well,  for  his  one  suit  of  the  ragged  remains  of 
what  had  been  several  other  people's  clothes 
made  him  a  perfect  scarecrow.  Besides  his 
vegetables,  he  had  some  chickens,  a  sacred  pos- 
session. "  Old  Unk'  Mose  "  was  known  and  re- 
spected through  all  the  countryside.  No 
chicken-thief  ever  came  to  his  cabin.  The  kind 
old  patriarch  was  reaping  the  reward  of  a  kind 
long  life.     He  dwelt  in  peace. 

He  took  Tom  and  Morris  to  the  lonely  cabin 
and  treated  them  there  with  a  royal  hospitality. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    137 

Despite  his  protests,  Tom  was  obliged  to  take 
the  one  bed.  Unk'  Mose  and  IMorris  slept  upon 
the  floor.  First,  they  had  a  mighty  dinner. 
Two  of  Moses's  fattest  chickens  and  everything 
Moses  had  in  the  way  of  other  food  filled  their 
starved  stomachs.  Then  to  sleep.  The  last 
thing  Tom  heard  that  night  was  the  swish  of 
Towser's  mighty  tail  upon  the  earthen  floor  as 
the  dog  lay  beside  his  cot.  The  last  thing  of 
which  he  was  conscious  was  Towser's  gently 
licking  the  hand  that  hung  down  from  the  cot. 

The  next  day  they  toiled  with  such  feeble  help 
as  Moses  could  give  them  upon  their  leaky  boat. 
They  put  it  in  fair  shape  and  then,  with  a  rusty 
ax  which  was  one  of  Unk'  Mose's  most  pre- 
cious possessions,  they  fashioned  a  couple  of 
rough  oars.  Then  they  spent  a  day  trying  to 
persuade  Moses  to  seek  freedom  with  them.  It 
was  in  vain. 

"  I'se  too  old,  Massa  Tom,"  said  Uncle  Moses. 
"  Dey  wuz  timeses  when  I  dun  thought  all  de 
days  and  dun  prayed  all  de  nights  dat  freedum'd 
cum  along  or  dat  I  cud  go  to  freedum.     It's  too 


138   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

late  nowadays.  Unk'  Mose  mus'  jes'  sot  hyar, 
a-waitin'.  P'raps,  ef  I  keeps  a-helpin'  udder 
folkses  to  find  deir  freedum,  p'raps  sum  day, 
'fore  I'se  troo'  a-waitin',  de  angel  ob  de  Lawd'U 
cum  a-walkin'  up  to  my  do'  and  he'll  be  a-holdin' 
by  de  ban'  ob  a  great  big  udder  angel  'n  de 
udder  angel  he'll  dun  smile  at  me  and  say: 
*  Unk'  Moses,  I'se  Freedum  'n  I'se  cum  to  you.' 
Den  I'll  say:  '  Thank  de  good  Lawd,'  and  I'll  be 
so  happy  I  guess  I'll  jes'  die  'n  go  to  de  great 
White  Throne,  whar  ebberybody's  free." 

Late  that  afternoon  when  they  had  had  to 
give  up  the  hope  of  taking  Uncle  Mose  with 
them,  they  were  making  a  bundle  of  the  food 
he  had  given  them.  It  was  a  big  bundle.  He 
would  have  slaughtered  his  last  chicken  for 
them,  had  they  permitted  it.  Suddenly  there 
came  the  sound  of  a  long,  shrill  whistle.  Uncle 
Moses,  tying  up  the  bundle  on  his  knees,  forgot 
"  de  rumatiz  "  and  almost  sprang  to  his  feet. 

''  Lawd-a-massy,  dat's  de  oberseer!  He's  dun 
callin'  de  hands  to  de  quarters."  The  quarters 
were  the  slave-quarters  which  always  clustered 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    139 

at  a  respectful  distance  in  the  rear  of  a  planter's 
home.  "  Dat  ar  oberseer  mebbe'll  cum  hyar. 
You  folkses  mus'  hide." 

The  whistle  had  sounded  dangerously  near. 
As  they  looked  out  of  the  one  door  that  gave 
light  to  the  slave's  cabin,  they  saw^  three  horse- 
men trotting  towards  it,  two  white  men  and  a 
negro.  They  were  Moses's  master,  the  dreaded 
overseer,  and  a  groom.  It  was  impossible  to  run 
across  the  small  cleared  space  about  the  cabin 
and  seek  the  woods  without  being  seen.  But 
where  could  they  hide  in  a  one-roomed  hut? 

**  De  chimbley,  quick,  de  chim.bley,"  gasped 
Uncle  Mose. 

A  big  chimney,  full  of  the  soot  of  many  years 
of  wood-fires  on  the  broad  hearth  below,  filled 
half  one  side  of  the  room.  Tom  and  Morris 
rushed  to  it,  climbed  up  the  rough  stone  sides, 
found  a  precarious  footing  just  above  the  fire- 
place, and  waited.  Fortunately  the  fire  upon 
which  the  food  for  the  journey  had  been  cooked 
had  almost  died  down.  A  little  smoke  floated 
up  the  wide  opening.     The  smoke  and  the  soot 


140   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

tickled  the  boy's  nostrils  until  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  must  sneeze.  A  sneeze  might  mean 
death.  With  a  mighty  effort  he  kept  still  for 
what  seemed  to  him  an  hour.  It  was  really 
about  five  minutes. 

Mr.  Izzard,  owner  of  Uncle  Moses  and  of 
some  hundreds  of  other  black  men,  Jake  John- 
son, his  overseer,  a  renegade  Yankee,  with  a 
face  that  told  of  the  cruel  soul  within  him, 
trotted  up  to  the  door,  the  black  groom  a  few 
yards  behind  them.  Uncle  Moses  had  thrust  the 
bundle  of  food  far  back  under  the  bed.  He 
stood  respectfully  in  his  doorway,  bowing  to  the 
ground.  Towser  cowered  beside  him.  Towser 
had  felt  more  than  once  the  sting  of  the  long 
whip  Jake  Johnson  carried.  He  feared  and  he 
hated  the  overseer. 

''Howdy,  Massa  Izzard?"  said  Moses. 
"Howdy,  Mista  Johnsing?  Will  you-uns  light 
down  'n  cum  in?  " 

''Howdy,  Uncle  Moses?"  Mr.  Izzard  replied. 
He  was  a  tall,  pale,  well-born,  well-bred,  well- 
educated  man,  as  kind  a  man  as  ever  held  his 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    141 

fellowmen  in  slavery,  and  as  sure  that  he  was 
justified  in  doing  so  by  the  laws  of  both  God 
and  man  as  the  German  emperor  was  that  he 
ruled  a  subject  people  by  divine  right.  *'  No, 
we  won't  light  down.  We  just  came  to  say 
howdy.  Are  you  getting  on  all  right?  If  you 
want  anything,  come  up  to  the  big  house  and 
ask  for  it." 

He  smiled  and  the  overseer  scowled  upon  the 
old  negro  as  he  stammered  a  few  words  of 
thanks.     Suddenly  the  overseer  asked : 

"  Have  you  seen  anything  of  Mr.  Pinckney's 
Morris,  Mose?" 

"  No,  sah,  Mista  Johnsing,  sah,  I  ain't  seen 
hide  nor  har  ob  Morris.  Has  dat  fool  nigger 
runned  away?  " 

Johnson  looked  at  him  sharply. 

''  If  I  thought  you  knew  already  he  had  run 
away,"  said  he,  "  I'd  " — he  cracked  his  whip  in 
the  air  to  show  what  he  would  have  done. 

Moses  and  Towser  cowered.  But  Mr.  Izzard 
told  Johnson  to  stop  frightening  *'  the  best 
darkey    on    the    place  "    and    they    rode    away. 


142   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

Mose  dropped  upon  his  one  chair  and  was  just 
about  to  give  fervent  thanks  for  the  escape  from 
detection,  when  Johnson,  who  had  turned  a 
short  distance  away  and  had  galloped  back, 
flung  himself  off  his  horse  at  the  door  and  strode 
into  the  dusky  hut. 

"  I  b'lieve  you  know  something  about  that 
Morris,"  he  roared  at  the  shrinking  old  negro. 
"  You  looked  guilty.  Tell  me  what  you  know 
or  I'll  thrash  you  within  an  inch  of  your  black 
life."     He  cracked  his  dreaded  whip  again. 

"  I  dun  know  nothin'  'bout  him,  Mista  John- 
sing,"  Moses  pleaded. 

Alas,  at  that  moment,  smoke  and  soot  proved 
too  much  for  the  overtried  nostrils  of  Tom.  He 
sneezed  with  the  vigor  of  a  sneeze  long  held 
back.  His  '' at-choo  !  at-choo  !  "  sounded  down 
the  chimney  like  a  chorus  of  bassoons.  John- 
son was  across  the  room  in  a  bound.  He  knelt 
upon  the  hearth,  groped  up  the  chimney,  caught 
the  boy  by  the  ankle  and  pulled  him  down.  The 
soot  had  made  a  negro  of  Tom.  The  overseer 
was  sure  he  had  caught  the  fleeing  Morris. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    143 

At  that  terrible  moment,  when  Johnson's 
throat  was  swelUng  for  a  yell  of  triumph  that 
would  surely  have  brought  Mr.  Izzard  back  to 
the  hut,  Uncle  Moses  cast  the  traditions  of  a  life 
of  servile  fear  of  the  white  man  behind  him. 
Never  had  he  dreamed  of  laying  a  finger  on  one 
of  his  owner's  race,  even  in  those  long-ago  days 
when  stout  thews  and  muscles  made  him  fit  to 
fight.  Now,  in  trembling  old  age,  the  truth  of 
the  poet's  saying, 

"  Who  would  be  free,  himself  must  strike  the  blow," 
put  spirit  for  a  second  into  his  old  heart.  He 
knew  the  danger  that  lay  in  that  yell.  He  meant 
to  stop  it,  cost  him  what  it  might.  Johnson  was 
still  on  his  knees  in  the  ashes,  still  clutching 
Tom's  ankle,  the  boy  still  sprawling  on  the 
hearth,  half-dazed  with  the  shock  of  discovery 
and  of  his  fall,  when  Uncle  Moses's  withered  old 
body  hurled  itself  upon  the  overseer's  broad 
back  and  his  feeble  fingers  clutched  the  man's 
windpipe  and  choked  him  into  a  second's  silence. 
That  second  was  enough.  Tom  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  sprang  at  his  foe  like  a  wildcat,  and  good 


144   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

old  Towser,  rejoicing  in  the  vengeance  that 
beckoned  to  him,  sunk  his  teeth  in  Johnson's 
shoulder  and  tore  him  down  from  the  back 
while  Tom  struck  his  strongest  just  below  the 
overseer's  chin  and  knocked  him  out  for  the  time 
being.  Before  he  came  to,  he  had  been  lashed 
hand-and-foot  into  a  long  bundle,  had  been  ef- 
fectually gagged  with  his  own  whip,  had  been 
blindfolded  and  had  been  rolled  beneath  the 
bed,  from  under  which  the  food  had  been  hur- 
riedly withdrawn.  Meanwhile  Morris  had 
neither  been  seen  nor  heard.  Tom  called  up  the 
chimney  to  him  to  come  down. 

''  I  kain't,  Massa  Tom,"  said  a  stifled  voice. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  Morris  to  slip  down 
and  help  in  the  fight  he  heard  going  on  below. 
His  one  thought  had  been  to  escape  himself. 
So  he  had  climbed  still  higher  up  the  chimney 
and  in  his  frantic  haste  he  had  so  wedged  him- 
self into  it  that  it  took  Tom  an  hour  to  pull  him 
down.  It  was  a  battered,  bruised,  and  bleeding 
negro  who  finally  appeared.  That  was  a  very 
long  hour.     Mr.  Izzard  might  return  in  search 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    145 

of  his  overseer  at  any  moment.  The  overseer 
himself  must  be  conscious  by  this  time.  His 
ears  must  have  told  him  much.  Tom  whispered 
to  Morris  and  Moses  to  say  nothing.  His 
anxious  gesture  toward  the  bed  beneath  which 
Johnson  lay  frightened  both  negroes  into  scared 
silence.  Fortunately  for  them  the  overseer's 
ears  had  told  him  nothing.  Towser's  teeth  had 
drawn  so  much  blood — the  mighty  hound  had 
been  pried  off  his  foe  with  difficulty — that  the 
man  lay  in  a  faint  until  the  four  fugitives  had 
fled.  For  there  were  four  fugitives  now. 
Neither  Moses  nor  Towser  could  stay  to  face 
the  coming  wrath.  The  rest  of  Moses's  chickens 
were  killed,  the  rest  of  his  vegetables  gathered. 
When  darkness  fell,  the  old  flat-boat,  laden  until 
she  had  a  scant  two  inches  of  free-board  above 
the  water,  was  slipping  down  the  river  again. 
Uncle  Moses  was  no  longer  '*  a-waitin'  fer  free- 
dum."  He  was  going  in  search  of  the  freedom 
he  had  so  long  craved.  He  and  his  fellows  had 
two  clear  days  in  which  to  get  away  without 
pursuit,  for  Johnson  lay  in  his  dark  prison  be- 


iik 


146   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

neath  the  bed  for  forty-eight  hours  before  he 
was  found.  One  of  the  ropes  used  to  bind  him 
had  caught  upon  an  old  nail  in  the  wall.  He 
was  too  weak  to  tear  it  away  and  so  could  not 
even  roll  himself  to  the  outer  air.  On  the  sec- 
ond day  of  his  unexplained  absence,  ]\Ir.  Izzard 
had  sent  all  the  negroes  in  search  of  him  and 
had  offered  a  reward  for  his  finding.  The  dis- 
covery of  his  horse  in  a  distant  part  of  the  plan- 
tation had  concentrated  the  search  there.  The 
darkies  who  finally  got  the  reward  did  not  re- 
joice much  in  it,  for  in  finding  the  overseer,  they 
knew  they  were  finding  a  cruel  taskmaster  and 
his  cruel  whip.  But  the  story  of  his  discom- 
fiture by  three  negroes,  for  he  had  never  known 
that  Tom's  sooty  face  was  really  white,  soon 
spread  through  the  countryside.  He  became  a 
neighborhood  joke  and  in  his  wrath  at  being 
made  a  butt  he  resigned  as  Mr.  Izzard's  over- 
seer. Leaving  this  place  deprived  him  of  his 
immunity  from  conscription.  He  was  promptly 
seized  by  the  nearest  Confederate  officer  and 
impressed  into  the  army.     The  Izzard  negroes 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    147 

had  the  infinite  joy  of  seeing  their  hated  ex- 
overseer  marched  off  under  guard  to  a  Confed- 
erate camp,  to  serve  as  a  private  soldier. 

Tom  was  destined  to  see  Jake  Johnson  again. 

Two  nights  they  rowed  down  the  river,  al- 
most without  a  word,  afraid  to  speak  lest  some- 
one in  the  infrequent  houses  and  still  more  in- 
frequent villages  along  the  banks  should  hear 
them.  Wise  old  Towser  knew  enough  not  to 
bark  when  men  about  him  kept  so  still.  He  lay 
always  where  with  nose  or  paw  or  tail  he  could 
touch  Tom.  The  latter  was  the  commander  of 
the  expedition  and  Towser  felt  it  and  became 
his  abject  slave  accordingly.  At  the  close  of  the 
second  night  they  had  reached  the  Tennessee 
River.  By  day  they  camped  upon  shore  in  some 
hidden  place,  first  craftily  secreting  the  boat 
amid  rushes  and  reeds.  From  their  second 
hiding-place,  they  saw  about  noon  a  Confeder- 
ate gunboat,  a  small  stern-wheel  steamboat, 
v/ith  cotton-bales  at  her  bow  and  stern  screen- 
ing her   two   guns.      Though    she   was    making 


148   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

all  possible  speed  up  the  current,  she  moved 
but  slowly.  Her  decks  were  thick  with  excited 
men.  A  babble  of  voices  reached  the  fugitives, 
peering  at  her  behind  a  mass  of  bushes.  The 
few  words  that  could  be  made  out  told  them 
nothing.  The  sight  of  her,  however,  warned 
them  that  a  new  danger  might  await  them  on 
the  traveled  waters  of  the  Tennessee.  Their 
hearts  would  have  beat  higher,  had  they  known 
that  General  Mitchell  had  pushed  south  from 
Huntsville  and  that  Union  forces  were  then  en- 
camped in  strength  upon  the  river,  not  many 
miles  below  where  they  were  cowering.  The 
Confederate  gunboat  had  been  steaming  up- 
stream to  escape  capture. 

When  darkness  came,  they  embarked  again 
upon  what  proved  to  be  the  last  chapter  in  the 
history  of  the  old  flat-boat.  The  next  morning, 
caught  in  an  eddy  at  the  mouth  of  a  small,  swift 
tributary  of  the  Tennessee,  she  whirled  about, 
the  Spanish  moss  dropped  out  of  her  rotten 
seams,  she  filled  and  sank.  She  dropped  so 
swiftly  beneath  them  that  before  they  realized 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    149 

their  danger  they  were  all  floundering  in  water 
over  their  heads.  Tom  could  swim  like  a  fish. 
That  is  one  of  the  first  things  a  boy  should  learn 
to  do.  To  his  delight,  he  found  Uncle  Moses 
was  also  surprisingly  at  home  in  the  water,  con- 
sidering his  years.  Towser  accepted  the  situa- 
tion as  something  he  did  not  understand,  but 
which  was  doubtless  entirely  all  right,  as  his 
lord  and  master,  Tom,  was  in  the  water  too. 
Morris,  however,  could  not  swim  a  stroke  and 
saw  only  certain  death  before  him.  He  gave  a 
yell  of  terror  as  he  went  under.  That  yell  came 
near  costing  them  dear.  As  he  rose  to  the  sur- 
face, Tom  on  one  side  and  Uncle  Mose  on  the 
other,  acting  under  Tom's  instructions,  edged  a 
shoulder  under  him,  and  started  to  swim  to 
shore  with  him.  Again  he  yelled.  This  time 
Moses  lost  patience. 

"  Shet  up,  you  fool  nigger.  You  sho'ly  needs 
to  be  'mersed." 

With  this  whispered  menace,  he  reached  up 
one  hand  and  ducked  Morris's  head  quite  under 
water.      That   stopped    all    further   sound    from 


150   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

him.  And  by  this  time  their  feet  had  touched 
bottom.  They  waded  ashore,  with  Towser  wag- 
ging a  triumphant  tail,  shaking  himself  and 
sending  showers  of  spray  over  them.  There 
they  stood,  wet  as  water-rats,  with  nothing  in 
the  world  except  the  dripping  clothes  they  wore. 
And  there  was  no  hiding-place  near.  For  half 
a  mile  on  either  side  of  them  a  cleared  field  lay 
open  to  the  day  and  the  day  was  upon  them. 
They  had  tempted  Fate  by  rowing  on  too  long 
after  the  first  signs  of  dawn.  Fate  had  turned 
the  trump  upon  them.  The  sun  rolled  up  above 
the  eastern  horizon  at  their  back.  It  showed 
them,  not  half  a  mile  away,  a  plantation  house. 
It  showed  them  a  swarm  of  field-hands  coming 
to  the  day's  toil.  It  showed  them  a  mounted 
overseer,  only  a  few  hundred  feet  away,  riding 
up  to  the  flat  range  of  the  field  from  a  ravine 
that  had  hidden  him.  He  had  heard  Morris's 
yells.  He  saw  the  three  and  rode  furiously  at 
them,  calling  out : 

"What  are  you  niggers  doin'  here?'-' 

Tom  stepped  forward  to  meet  him.     His  two 


i( 


(( 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    151 

companions  were  useless  in  an  emergency  like 
this.  They  cowered  back  and  were  dumb. 
Towser  strode  ahead  beside  Tom  and  barked. 
The  overseer  pulled  up  short.  He  saw  he  was 
dealing  with  a  white  man,  or  rather  with  a  white 
boy.  The  circumstances  were  suspicious.  Who 
were  these  three  dripping  ragamuffins?  But 
since  one  of  them  was  white,  the  man's  tone 
changed  and  he  modified  his  question. 

Who  are  ye?    And  what  are  ye  doin'  here?  " 

I  am  on  my  way  to  Vicksburg,"  Tom  an- 
swered, "  by  the  river.  My  boat  sunk  just  off 
shore  here  and  we  swam  ashore.  Can  you  give 
me  another  boat?" 

I  mout  'n  I  moutn't." 

I  am  carrying  dispatches,"  said  Tom, 
sternly.  "  You  will  delay  me  at  your  peril.  I 
shall  take  one  of  those  boats,  whether  you  con- 
sent or  not." 

With  this  he  pointed  at  the  most  encouraging 
thing  the  sunrise  had  shown  him.  This  was  a 
line  of  three  boats  fastened  to  a  wooden  landing- 
place  by  the  river. 


<< 


it 


152   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  I  b'lieve  you're  a  Yankee,"  said  the  horse- 
man, ''  and  these  are  runaway  niggers.  You  and 
they  must  come  up  to  the  big  house  with  me. 
If  you're  all  right,  we'll  send  you  on  your  way. 
If  you're  not,  well,  we  know  what  to  do  with 
Yanks  and  runaway  niggers!     March!  " 

He  slipped  his  hand  behind  him,  as  if  to  draw 
a  pistol.  Tom  was  already  making  the  same 
gesture.  Neither  of  them  had  a  pistol.  Tom's 
had  gone  to  the  bottom.  It  was  pure  blufif  on 
both  sides.  And  in  a  moment,  seeing  this  and 
being  Americans,  both  laughed.  But  none  the 
less  the  overseer  demanded  that  they  should  go 
to  the  big  house.  Tom,  protesting,  but  ap- 
parently half-yielding,  edged  along  until  he  was 
near  the  landing-platform.  Then,  shouting 
"  Come  on,  boys!  "  he  ran  to  it,  the  frightened 
negroes  following  at  his  heels  and  Towser  run- 
ning ahead.  He  hustled  them  into  the  boat  at 
the  eastern  end  of  the  pier,  jumped  in  himself, 
jerked  the  rope  off  the  wooden  peg  that  inse- 
curely held  it,  and  pushed  off.  The  overseer, 
angrily  protesting,  stood  a  moment  watching  his 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   153 

prey  escape  and  then  galloped  like  mad  for  the 
big  house,  shouting  **  Yanks !  spies!!  thieves!!! 
Yanks!!!!"  He  was  met  halfway  by  half  a 
dozen  men  in  Confederate  gray,  roused  by  his 
yells.  They  were  officers  who  had  spent  the 
night  at  the  hospitable  house,  had  breakfasted 
at  daybreak,  and  were  just  about  to  mount  for 
their  day's  march  when  the  overseer  gave  the 
alarm.  It  was  lucky  for  the  fugitives  that  of- 
ficers do  not  carry  anything  bigger  than  pistols. 
A  fusillade  of  revolver-bullets  all  fell  short  of  the 
fleeing  mark.  Tom  and  Morris  were  pulling  an 
oar  apiece — they  had  found  but  two  in  the  boat 
— with  a  desperate  energy.  But  it  was  unlucky 
for  the  fugitives  that  they  had  not  thought  to 
steal  or  to  scuttle  the  other  two  boats.  This 
was  Tom's  fault,  for  he  was  captain. 

"  I'll  know  better  next  time,"  said  Tom  to 
himself  ruefully,  as  he  saw  three  men  spring 
into  each  boat  for  the  pursuit.  "  I'll  know  bet- 
ter next  time — if  there  ever  is  a  next  time." 

It  did  not  seem  likely  that  there  would  be  a 
next  time.     One  of  the  pursuing  boats  fell  be- 


154  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

hind,  to  be  sure.  In  it,  too,  there  were  but  two 
oars  and  the  men  who  phed  them  could  not 
match  the  black  man  and  the  white  boy  who 
rowed  for  freedom's  sake  and  life's  sake.  But 
in  the  other  boat,  two  strong  men  each  pulled 
two  oars,  while  the  third  man  crouched  in  the 
bow,  pistol  in  hand,  calling  out  steering  instruc- 
tions. This  boat  gained  upon  them,  bit  by  bit. 
The  fugitives  could  hear  the  lookout  call  "  Port, 
hard-a-port !  "  and  could  almost  see  the  extra 
weight  thrown  into  the  sweep  of  the  starboard 
oars  to  send  the  boat's  head  the  right  way. 
Once  the  man  at  the  bow  took  a  chance  on  a 
long  shot.  His  bullet  fell  harmlessly  two  hun- 
dred feet  astern  of  Towser  who  stood  in  the 
stern  of  the  fleeing  boat,  barking  savagely. 
Thrice  they  turned  a  sharp  bend  and  were  out 
of  sight  of  their  enemy  for  a  moment,  but  each 
time  there  was  a  shorter  interval  before  the 
enemy  shot  into  sight  behind  them.  A  fourth 
point  lay  just  ahead.  Tom  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder  and  measured  the  distance  with  his 
eye. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    155 

"  We  can  just  make  that  next  point,"  he 
panted.  "  Soon  as  we  do,  we'll  land  and  run. 
It's  our  only  chance." 

''  I  kain't  run,"  said  Uncle  Moses,  "  but  you'se 
right,  Massa  Tom.     Dey'll  catch  us  ef  we  keep 


a-rowin'." 


They  had  almost  reached  the  bend.  Another 
strong  pull  would  have  sent  them  around  it. 
But  the  pursuers  had  now  so  gained  upon  them 
that  the  lookout  chanced  another  shot.  By 
chance  or  by  skill,  it  was  a  very  good  shot.  The 
bullet  struck  Tom's  oar,  just  above  the  blade. 
The  blade  dropped  off  as  Tom  was  putting 
every  ounce  of  his  failing  strength  into  a  pro- 
digious pull.  The  handle,  released  from^  all 
pressure,  flew  through  the  air  and  Tom  rolled 
over  backwards  into  Morris's  lap.  There  was  a 
shout  of  triumph  from  astern.  The  rowers  bent 
to  their  work  with  a  fierce  vigor,  feeling  the  vic- 
tory won.  Morris  gave  one  last  pull  with  his 
one  oar  and  it  sent  the  boat  around  the  bend. 

"  And  dere,"  as  Uncle  Moses  with  widespread 
arms  used  to  tell  the  tale  thereafter,  "  and  dere 


156   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

wuz  Massa  Lincum's  gunboats,  a-crowdin'  ob  de 
ribber — 'n  de  Stars-'n-Stripeses,  dey  jest  kivered 
de  sky !  " 

And  so  Unk'  Mose  and  Morris  came  to  their 
freedom  and  Tom  came  to  his  own.  Towser 
became  Tom's  own.  Uncle  Moses  insisted  upon 
this  and  Towser  highly  approved  of  it.  The 
giant  hound  worshiped  the  boy.  Morris  was 
speedily  put  to  work  driving  a  four-mule  team 
for  the  commissary  department  of  General 
Mitchell's  force.  He  was  accustomed  to  having 
food  and  lodging  doled  out  to  him,  so  it  seemed 
quite  natural  to  be  given  sleeping  quarters 
(usually  under  the  canvas  cover  of  the  wagon 
he  drove)  and  rations,  but  it  took  him  some 
months  to  recover  from  the  shock  of  actually 
being  paid  wages  for  his  work.  When  this  too 
became  natural,  he  felt  that  he  was  really  free. 
Uncle  Moses  was  too  old  for  that  sort  of  thing. 
He  was  bewildered  by  the  rough  and  teeming 
life  of  an  army-camp.  He  clung  to  Tom,  was  as 
devoted  to  him  as  Towser  was,  and  much  more 
helpless    than    the    dog    was.       Towser    made 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   157 

friends  and  important  friends  at  once.  It  hap- 
pened that  food  was  rather  short  at  head- 
quarters the  day  after  the  fugitives  found  safety. 
Tom,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  go  North,  had  been 


TOWSER 

asked  to  share  the  tent  of  a  staff-officer  and  to 
eat  at  headquarters'  mess.  An  hour  before  din- 
ner, one  of  his  hosts  was  bewaihng  the  scanty 
fare  they  were  to  have  when  Towser  sidled 
around  the  corner  of  the  tent  with  a  fat  chicken 


158  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

in  his  mouth  and  laid  it  with  respectful  devotion 
at  his  master's  feet.  There  was  a  shout  of  ap- 
plause and  a  roar  from  the  assembled  officers  of 
**  Good  dog,  good  dog,  Towser,  do  it  again!" 
Whereupon,  after  some  majestic  wags  of  his 
mighty  tail,  he  disappeared  for  a  few  minutes 
and  did  do  it  again.  When  the  second  chicken 
was  laid  at  Tom's  feet,  Towser's  position  was 
assured.  He  was  named  an  orderly  by  acclama- 
tion and  was  given  a  collar  made  of  an  old  army 
belt,  with  the  magic  letters  "  U.  S.  A."  upon  it, 
a  collar  which  he  wore  proudly  through  his 
happy  life. 

Tom,  who  felt  quite  rich  when  his  arrears  of 
pay  were  handed  him,  decided  to  give  himself  a 
treat  by  making  Uncle  Moses  happy.  That  is 
the  best  kind  of  treat  man  or  boy  can  give  him- 
self. Make  somebody  else  happy  and  you  will 
be  happy  yourself.  Try  it  and  see.  So,  when 
he  finally  started  back  for  Cairo  and  Washing- 
ton he  took  both  Uncle  Moses  and  Towser  w^ith 
him.  Neither  of  them  had  ever  been  on  a  rail- 
road   train    before.      Equally    bewildered    and 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   159 

equally  happy,  they  sped  by  steam  across  the 
thousand  miles  between  Cairo  and  Washington. 
In  those  days  dogs  could  travel  with  their  mas- 
ters, without  being  banished  to  the  baggage-car. 
As  the  three  neared  the  latter  city,  the  great 
dome  of  the  Capitol  sprang  into  sight.  Tom 
eagerly  pointed  it  out. 

**  Look,  Uncle  Mose,  look,  Towser,  there's 
the  Capitol." 

'*  Dat's  Freedum's  home,"  murmured  Unk' 
Mose. 

And  Towser,  stirred  by  the  others'  emotion, 
barked  joyfully.  He  felt  at  home,  too,  because 
he  was  with  Tom. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Lincoln  Saves  Jim  Jenkins's  Life — Newspaper 
Abuse  of  Lincoln — The  Emancipation  Proc- 
lamation— Lincoln  in  His  Night-shirt — 
James  Russell  Lowell — "  Barbara  Friet- 
CHiE  " — Mr.  Strong  Comes  Home — The 
Russian  Fleet  Comes  to  New  York — A 
Backwoods  Jupiter. 

'T^OM  neared  the  White  House  with  a  beat- 
ing heart.  He  had  done  what  Lincoln  had 
bade  him  do.  The  dispatches  had  been  carried 
safely  and  had  been  put  into  General  Grant's 
hands.  But  he  had  taken  a  rather  large 
advantage  of  the  President's  smiling  sugges- 
tion that  he  might  occasionally  slip  into  a 
fight  if  he  wanted  to  do  so.  He  had  vol- 
unteered to  go  with  Andrews  on  the  rail- 
road raid,  which  was  to  take  a  week,  and  he 
had  been  away  for  many  weeks,  during  which 
he  had  been  carried  on  the  army-rolls  as  "  miss- 

i6o 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   i6i 

ing."  Would  the  President  think  of  him  as  a 
truant,  who  had  run  away  and  stayed  away  from 
duty?  John  Hay's  welcome  of  him  was  frigid. 
The  boy's  heart  went  down  into  his  boots.  But 
it  sprang  up  into  his  mouth  when  he  was 
ushered  into  Lincoln's  room,  to  be  greeted  with 
the  winning  smile  he  knew  so  w^ell  and  to  be 
congratulated  both  on  his  bravery  in  going  with 
Andrews  and  on  his  good  fortune  in  finally  get- 
ting back  to  the  Union  lines. 

The  President  was  not  alone  when  Tom 
entered  the  room.  There  sat  beside  the  desk  a 
middle-aged  woman,  worn  and  weary,  her  eyes 
red  with  weeping,  her  rusty  black  dress  spotted 
with  recent  tears.  Her  thin  hands  were  nerv- 
ously twisting  the  petition  someone  had  pre- 
pared for  her  to  present  to  the  President.  She 
looked  at  him  with  heartbroken  pleading  as  he 
turned  to  her  from  Tom  and  resumed  his  talk 
with  her  which  Tom's  entrance  had  interrupted. 

"  So  Secretary  Stanton  wouldn't  do  anything 
for  you,  Mrs.  Jenkins?  "  he  asked. 

"No,    sir;    no,    Mr.    President,"    sobbed    the 


i62   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

woman.  **  He  said — he  said  it  was  time  to  make 
an  example  and  that  my  boy  Jim  ought  to  be 
shot    and    would    be    shot    at — at — sunrise    to- 


morrow." 


The  sentence  ended  in  a  wail  and  the  woman 
crumpled  up  into  a  heap  and  slid  down  to  the 
floor  at  the  President's  feet.  She  had  gained 
one  moment  of  blessed  oblivion,  Jim,  "  the 
only  son  of  his  mother  and  she  a  widow,"  had 
overstayed  his  furlough,  had  been  arrested,  hur- 
ried before  a  court-martial  of  elderly  officers 
who  were  tired  of  hearing  the  frivolous  excuses 
of  careless  boys  for  not  coming  back  promptly 
to  the  front,  had  been  found  guilty  of  desertion, 
and  had  been  sentenced  to  be  shot  in  a  week. 
Six  days  the  mother  had  haunted  the  crowded 
anteroom  of  the  stern  Secretary  of  War,  bent 
beneath  the  burden  of  her  woe.  •  Admitted  at 
last  to  his  presence,  her  plea  for  her  boy's  life 
had  been  ruthlessly  refused. 

"  The  life  of  the  nation  is  at  stake,  madam," 
Stanton  had  growled  at  her.  *'  We  must  keep 
the  fighting  ranks  full.     What  is  one  boy's  life 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  163 

to  that  of  our  country?  It  is  unfortunate,"  the 
grim  Secretary's  tones  grew  softer  at  the  sight 
of  the  mother's  utter  anguish,  *'  it  is  unfortunate 
that  the  hfe  happens  to  be  that  of  your  boy,  but 
an  example  is  needed  and  an  example  there  shall 
be.  I  will  do  nothing.  He  dies  at  sunrise. 
Good-day." 

He  rang  the  bell  upon  his  desk.  The  sobbing 
mother  was  ushered  out  and  the  next  person  on 
the  list  was  ushered  in.  An  hour  afterwards 
she  was  with  Lincoln.  There  was  no  six  days* 
wait  at  the  White  House  for  the  mother  of  a 
Union  soldier. 

When  she  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  faint,  Tom 
sprang  to  help  her,  but  the  President  was 
quicker  than  he.  Lincoln's  great  arms  lifted  her 
like  a  child  and  laid  her  upon  a  sofa.  He 
touched  a  bell  and  sent  word  to  ^Mrs.  Lincoln 
asking  her  to  come  to  him.  When  she  did  so, 
she  took  charge  of  Mrs,  Jenkins  and  speedily 
revived  her.  But  it  was  the  President,  not  his 
wife,  who  completed  the  cure  and  saved  the 
weeping  woman's  reason   from  wreck  and  her 


«. 


164   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

life  from  long  anguish.  He  pointed  to  the  peti- 
tion which  had  fallen  from  her  nerveless  fingers 
to  the  floor. 

"  Hand  me  that  paper,  Tom." 

He  put  on  his  spectacles  and  started  to  read 
it.  The  glasses  grew  misty  with  the  tears  in  his 
eyes.  He  wiped  them  with  a  red  bandanna 
handkerchief,  finished  reading  the  paper,  and 
wrote  beneath  it  in  bold  letters:  ''This  man  is 
pardoned.  A.  Lincoln,  Prest."  Then  he  held 
the  petition  close  to  the  sofa  so  that  the  first 
thing  Mrs.  Jenkins  saw  as  she  came  back  to  con- 
sciousness in  Mrs.  Lincoln's  arms  was  Jim  Jen- 
kins's pardon.  It  was  that  blessed  news  which 
made  her  herself  again.  She  broke  into  a  tor- 
rent of  thanks,  which  Lincoln  gently  waved 
aside. 

"  You  see,  ma'am,"  said  the  President,  ''  I 
don't  believe  the  way  to  keep  the  fighting  ranks 
full  is  to  shoot  one  of  the  fighters,  'cause  he's 
been  a  bit  careless.  There's  a  Chinese  proverb : 
*  Never  drown  a  boy  baby.'  I  guess  that  means 
that  if  a  boy  makes  a  mistake,  it's  better  to  give 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    165 

him  a  chance  not  to  make  another.  You  tell 
Jim  from  me  to  do  better  after  this.  Tom,  you 
take  Mrs.  Jenkins  over  to  the  Secretary  and 
show  him  that  little  line  of  mine.  He  won't  like 
it  very  much.  Usually  he  has  his  own  way,  but 
sometimes  I  have  mine  and  this  happens  to  be 
one  of  those  times.  Glad  you  came  to  see  me, 
Mrs.  Jenkins.  There's  lots  of  things  you  can 
do  to  an  American  boy  that  are  better  than 
shooting  him.  Here's  a  little  note  you  can  read 
later,  ma'am.  Hope  it'll  help  you  a  bit. 
Good-by — and  God  bless  you." 

Tom  took  the  widow  Jenkins,  dazed  with  her 
happiness,  to  the  War  Department,  where  the 
formal  order  was  entered  that  sent  Jim  Jenkins 
back  to  the  front,  resolute  to  pay  his  country 
for  the  life  the  President  had  given  him.  Only 
when  the  order  had  been  entered  did  the  mother 
remember  the  envelope  clutched  in  her  hand 
which  the  President  had  given  her.  It  contained 
no  words,  unless  it  be  true  that  "  money  talks." 
It  held  a  twenty-dollar  bill.  Mrs.  Jenkins  had 
spent  her  last  cent  on  her  journey  to  Washing- 


i66   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

ton  and  her  six  days'  stay  there.  Abraham 
Lincoln's  gift  sent  her  safely  back  to  home  and 
happiness.  When  once  again  she  had  occasion 
to  weep  over  her  son,  a  year  later,  her  tears 
were  those  of  a  hero's  mother.  For  Jim  Jenkins 
died  a  hero's  death  at  Gettysburg,  Pennsylvania, 
on  July  4,  1863,  that  day  of  ''  the  high  tide  of  the 
Confederacy,"  when  Robert  E.  Lee,  the  great 
Confederate  commander,  saw  the  surge  of  his 
splendid  soldiers  break  in  vain  upon  the  rocks 
of  the  Union  line,  in  the  heart  of  the  North. 
The  bullet  that  killed  Jim  Jenkins  tore  through 
the  picture  of  Abraham  Lincoln  Jim  always 
wore  over  his  heart.  And  Lincoln  found  time 
in  that  great  hour  of  the  country's  salvation  to 
turn  aside  from  the  myriad  duties  of  every  day 
long  enough  to  write  Jim  Jenkins'  mother  a  let- 
ter about  her  dead  son's  gift  of  his  life  to  his 
country,  a  letter  of  a  marvelous  sympathy  and 
of  a  wondrous  consolation,  which  was  buried 
with  the  soldier's  mother  not  long  afterwards, 
when  she  rejoined  in  a  world  of  peace  her  sol- 
dier son. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    167 

Mrs.  Jenkins's  experience  with  Stanton  was  a 
typical  one.  Everybody  hated  to  come  in  con- 
tact with  the  surly  Secretary.  One  day,  when 
Private  Secretary  Nicolay  was  away,  Hay  came 
into  the  offices  with  a  letter  in  his  hand  and  a 
cloud  on  his  usually  gay  brow.  "  Nicolay  wants 
me  to  take  some  people  to  see  Stanton,"  he  said. 
"  I  would  rather  make  the  tour  of  a  smallpox 
hospital," 

Lincoln  always  shrank  from  studying  the  rec- 
ords of  court-martials,  but  he  often  had  to  do 
so,  that  justice  or  injustice  might  be  tempered 
by  mercy.  He  caught  at  every  chance  of  show- 
ing mercy.  A  man  had  been  sentenced  to  be 
shot  for  cowardice. 

"  Oh,  I  won't  approve  that,"  said  the  Presi- 
dent. ^' '  He  who  fights  and  runs  away,  may  live 
to  fight  another  day.'  Besides,  if  this  fellow  is 
a  coward,  it  would  frighten  him  too  terribly  to 
shoot  him." 

The  next  case  was  that  of  a  deserter.  After 
sentence,  he  had  escaped  and  had  reached 
Mexico. 


i68   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  I  guess  that  sentence  is  all  right,"  Lincoln 
commented.  "  We  can't  catch  him,  you  see. 
We'll  condemn  him  as  they  used  to  sell  hogs  in 
Indiana,  '  as  they  run.' 


>  >> 


At  this  time  the  fortunes  of  war  were  not 
favoring  the  North.  There  were  days  of  doubt, 
days  almost  of  despair.  A  shrill  chorus  of  abuse 
of  the  President  sounded  from  many  Northern 
newspapers.  Its  keynote  was  struck  by  Horace 
Greeley,  the  editor  of  the  New  York  Tribune 
and  the  foremost  man  in  a  group  of  great  edi- 
tors such  as  the  country  has  never  seen  since. 
They  were  Horace  Greeley  of  the  Tribune, 
Henry  J.  Raymond  of  the  New  York  Times,  and 
Samuel  Bowles  of  the  Springfield  (Mass.)  Re- 
publican. Bowles  wrote  :  "  Lincoln  is  a  Simple  Su- 
san"; Raymond  demanded  that  he  be  "super- 
seded" as  President;  and  Greeley,  in  a  letter 
that  was  published  in  England  and  that  greatly 
harmed  the  Union  cause,  said  Lincoln  ruled 
"  a  bleeding,  bankrupt,  almost  dying  country." 

In   Tom's   boyhood,   the   names   of  the   three 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    169 

were  household  words  and  names  by  which  to 
conjure.  The  arrows  the  three  shot  at  Lincoln 
pierced  his  heart,  but  his  gentle  patience  never 
gave  way.  He  bore  with  their  well-meant  but 
unjust  criticism  as  he  bore  with  so  much  else 
in  those  dark  days,  careless  of  hurt  to  himself, 
if  he  could  but  serve  his  country  and  do  his  duty 
as  he  saw  it  to  do.  A  clear  light  shone  upon  one 
great  duty  and  this  he  did.  On  September  22, 
1862,  he  signed  his  famous  Emancipation  Proc- 
lamation, which  with  its  sequence  the  Thir- 
teenth Amendment  to  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States  ended  forever  slavery  wherever 
the  Stars-and-Stripes  waved.  In  the  early  days 
of  that  great  September,  even  a  boy  could  feel 
in  the  tense  atmosphere  of  the  White  House 
that  some  great  event  was  impending.  Nobody 
knew  upon  just  what  the  master  mind  was 
brooding,  but  the  whole  world  was  to  know  it 
soon.  It  was  not  until  Lincoln  had  written  with 
his  own  hand  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  room 
the  charter  of  freedom  for  the  Southern  slaves 
that  he  called  together  his  Cabinet,  not  to  ad- 


I70  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

vise  him  about  it,  but  to  hear  from  him  what 
he  had  resolved  to  do.  The  messenger  who 
summoned  the  Cabinet  officials  to  that  historic 
session  was  none  other  than  Uncle  Moses.  Tom 
of  course  had  long  since  told  the  story  of  his 
flight  for  freedom,  including  Unk'  Mose's  stout- 
hearted attack  at  the  very  nick  of  time  upon  the 
overseer.  Lincoln  was  touched  by  the  tale  of 
the  old  negro's  fine  feat.  He  had  Tom  bring 
Moses  to  see  him  and  Moses  emerged  from  that 
interview  the  proudest  darkey  in  the  world,  for 
he  was  made  a  messenger  and  general  utility 
man  at  the  White  House.  Part  of  his  duty  was 
to  keep  in  order  the  room  where  the  Cabinet 
met  and  to  summon  its  members  when  a  meet- 
ing of  it  was  called.  Uncle  Moses,  pacing  slowly 
but  majestically  from  the  White  House  to  the 
different  Departments,  bearing  a  message  from 
the  President  to  his  Cabinet  ministers,  was  a 
very  different  person  from  the  Unk'  Mose  who 
had  cared  for  Tom  and  Morris  in  the  Alabama 
cane-brake.  The  scarecrow  had  become  a  man. 
On    these    little    journeys,    Tad    Lincoln    often 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    171 

went  with  him,  his  small  white  hand  clutching 
one  of  Mose's  big  gnarled,  black  fingers.  Al- 
though Moses  knew  nothing  of  it  at  the  time, 
the  day  he  bore  the  summons  to  the  meeting  at 
which  the  Proclamation  that  freed  his  race  was 
read  was  the  great  day  of  his  life.  It  is  well  for 
any  man  or  boy  even  to  touch  the  fringe  of  a 
great  event  in  the  world's  history. 

"  I  dun  car'd  de  freedum  Proc-a-mation," 
Uncle  Moses  used  to  say  with  ever-deepening 
pride  as  the  years  rolled  by.  In  his  extreme  old 
age,  he  came  to  think  he  really  had  carried  the 
Proclamation  to  the  Cabinet,  instead  of  simply 
summoning  the  Cabinet  to  the  meeting  at  which 
the  Proclamation  was  first  read.  Memory  plays 
queer  tricks  with  the  old.  So  Unk'  Mose's  tale 
lost  nothing  in  the  telling,  year  after  year. 

The  next  evening  the  Cabinet  gathered  at  a 
small  party  at  the  residence  of  Salmon  P.  Chase, 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  John  Hay  was 
there.  He  wrote  that  evening  in  his  diary: 
"  They  all  seemed  to  feel  a  sort  of  new  and  ex- 


172   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

hilarated  life;  they  breathed  freer;  the  Presi- 
dent's Proclamation  had  freed  them  as  well  as 
the  slaves.  They  gleefully  and  merrily  called 
themselves  Abolitionists  and  seemed  to  enjoy 
the  novel  accusation  of  appropriating  that  hor- 
rible name."  The  Proclamation  made  it  re- 
spectable to  be  an  Abolitionist.  Every  great 
reform  is  disreputable  until  it  succeeds. 

The  Proclamation  seemed  to  have  freed  the 
President  too.  When  a  man  has  made  a  New- 
Year's  gift  of  freedom  to  millions  of  men  in 
bondage — emancipation  was  to  take  place  wher- 
ever the  Stars-and-Stripes  flew  on  January  i, 
1863 — such  a  man  must  have  a  wonderful  glow 
of  reflected  happiness.  Always  gentle,  he  grew 
gentler.  Always  with  a  keen  eye  for  humorous 
absurdity,  he  grew  still  more  fond  of  it. 

Tom  was  sent  for  one  day  and  hurried  to  the 
President's  offtce.  Lincoln  was  stretched  out  at 
full  length,  his  body  in  a  swivel-chair,  his  long 
legs  on  the  sill  of  the  open  window.  He  was 
holding  a  seven-foot  telescope   to  his   eyes,   its 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    173 

other  end  resting  upon  his  toes.  He  was  look- 
ing at  two  steamboats  puffing  hard  up  the 
Potomac.  What  news  did  they  bring?  As  the 
boy  knocked,  the  President,  without  turning  his 
head,  called  out:  "Come  in.  Tommy.** 

Tom  opened  the  door  and  as  he  did  so  John 
Hay  pushed  excitedly  by  him,  a  telegram  in  his 
hand,  saying: 

"  Mr.  President,  what  do  you  think  Smith  of 
Illinois  has  done?     He  is  behaving  very  badly." 

"  Smith,"  answered  Lincoln,  "  is  a  miracle  of 
meanness,  but  I'm  too  busy  to  quarrel  with  him. 
Don't  tell  me  what  he's  done  and  probably  I'll 
never  hear  of  it." 

He  knew  how  to  disregard  little  men  and  their 
little  deeds. 

That  night  Tom  sat  .  p  late.  Nicolay  and 
Hay  had  asked  him  to  spend  the  evening,  after 
the  household  had  gone  to  bed,  in  their  office. 
Crackers  and  cheese  and  a  jug  of  milk  were  the 
refreshments  and  John  Hay's  talk  was  the  de- 
light of  the  little  gathering.  Midnight  had  just 
struck  when   the  door  opened   quietly  and   the 


174  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

President  slipped  into  the  room.  Never  had 
Tom  seen  him  in  such  guise.  The  only  thing  he 
had  on  was  a  short  nightshirt  and  carpet- 
slippers.     He  was  smiling  as  he  entered. 

''  Hear  this,  boys,"  he  said.  "  It's  from  the 
'  Biglow  Papers.'  That  fellow  Lowell  knows 
how  to  put  things.  Just  hear  this.  He  puts 
these  Yankee  words  into  Jeff  Davis's  mouth: 

"  *  An'  votin'  we're  prosp'rous  a  hundred  times  over 
Wun't  change  bein'  starved  into  livin'  on  clover. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

An'  wut  Spartans  wuz  lef  when  the  battle  wuz  done 
Wuz  them  that  wuz  too  unambitious  to  run. 

An'  how,  sence  Fort  Donelson,  winnin'  the  day 
Consists  in  triumphantly  gettin'  away ! ' 

And  here,"  continued  the  President,  utterly  un- 
aware of  the  oddity  of  his  garb,  "  and  here  is  a 
good  touch  on  the  Proclamation.  I  wish  all  the 
*  cussed  fools  '  in  America  could  read  it.  Hear 
this: 

"  '  An'  why  should  we  kick  up  a  muss 

About  the  Pres'dent's  proclamation? 
It  ain't  a-goin'  to  lib'rate  us 

Ef  we  don't  like  emancipation. 
The  right  to  be  a  cussed  fool 

Is  safe  from  all  devices  human. 
It's  common   (ez  a  gin'l  rule) 

To  every  critter  born  o'  woman.* " 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    175 

Lincoln  strode  out  again,  "  seemingly  utterly- 
unconscious,"  says  Hay's  diary,  *'  that  he,  with 
his  short  shirt  hanging  about  his  long  legs  and 
setting  out  behind  like  the  tail  feathers  of  an 
enormous  ostrich,  was  infinitely  funnier  than 
anything  in  the  book  he  was  laughing  at." 

"  That  fellow  Lowell "  was  James  Russell 
Lowell,  an  American  critic,  poet,  and  essayist, 
later  our  Minister  to  England. 

One  day  Tom  had  a  welcome  letter  from  his 
father,  saying  he  was  on  his  way  home  and 
would  be  in  Washington  almost  as  soon  as  his 
letter  was.  The  letter  was  written  from  St. 
Petersburg  and  had  upon  its  envelope  Russian 
stamps.  Tom  had  never  seen  a  Russian  stamp 
before.  He  showed  the  envelope  as  a  curiosity 
to  little  Tad  Lincoln  and  at  that  small  boy's 
eager  request  gave  it  to  him.  Tom  happened 
to  lunch  with  the  Lincoln  family  that  day.  Tad 
produced  his  new  possession  at  the  table,  crying 
to  his  mother: 

"  See  what  Tommy  has  given  me." 


176   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"Who  wrote  you  from  Russia?"  asked  Mrs. 
Lincoln. 

''  My  father,"  the  boy  answered.  "  He  sent 
me  good  news.    He's  coming  home  right  away." 

''  Your  father  sent  me  good  news,  too,"  said 
Mr.  Lincoln  from  the  head  of  the  table. 

"What  was  that?"  interjected  the  first  lady 
of  the  land. 

"  You  shall  know  soon,  my  dear."  Then  the 
beautiful  smile  came  to  the  President's  firm  lips 
and  overflowed  into  his  deep-set  eyes  as  he  said 
to  Tom :  "  The  highest  honor  the  old  Romans 
could  give  to  a  fellow-citizen  was  to  decree  that 
he  had  '  deserved  well  of  the  Republic'  That 
can  be  said  of  your  father  now.  He  has  de- 
served well  of  the  Republic.  Before  long,  the 
world  will  know  what  he  has  done.  Until  then," 
he  turned  as  he  spoke  to  his  wife,  "  until  then 
we'd  better  not  talk  about  it." 

This  talk  was  in  early  June  of  1863.  By  Sep- 
tember the  whole  world,  or  at  least  all  the  gov- 
ernments of  the  world,  did  know  what  Mr. 
Strong  had  done  after  Lincoln  sent  him  abroad. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    177 

The  whole  world  saw  the  symbol  of  his  work, 
without  in  many  cases  knowing  what  the  sym- 
bol signified.  That  symbol  was  the  famous  visit 
of  the  Russian  fleet  to  New  York  City  in  Sep- 
tember of  1863. 

The  governing  classes  of  both  England  and 
France  were  in  favor  of  the  South  during  our 
Civil  War.  The  English  and  French  Empires 
were  jealous  of  the  growth  of  the  Republic  and 
wished  to  see  it  torn  asunder.  France  hoped  to 
establish  a  Mexican  Empire,  a  vassal  of  France, 
if  the  Confederacy  won.  England  needed 
Southern  cotton  and  could  not  get  it  unless  our 
blockade  of  Southerrl  ports  was  broken.  The 
people  of  both  France  and  England  had  little  to 
say  as  to  what  their  governments  would  do. 
Many  distinguished  Frenchmen  took  our  side 
and  the  mass  of  Englishmen  were  also  on  our 
side,  but  the  latter  were  helpless  in  the  grip  of 
their  aristocratic  rulers.  They  testified  to  their 
belief,  however,  splendidly.  In  the  height  of 
what  was  called  "  the  cotton  famine,"  when  the 
Lancashire    mills   were    closed    for   lack   of   the 


lyS   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

fleecy  staple  and  when  the  Lancashire  mill-opera- 
tives were  facing  actual  starvation,  a  tiny  group 
of  great  Englishmen,  John  Bright  and  Thomas 
Bayley  Potter  among  them,  spoke  throughout 
Lancashire  on  behalf  of  the  Northern  cause. 
There  was  to  be  a  great  meeting  at  Manchester, 
in  the  heart  of  the  stricken  district.  The  cost 
of  hall,  lights,  advertising,  etc.,  was  consider- 
able. Someone  suggested  charging  an  admis- 
sion fee.  It  was  objected  that  the  unemployed 
poor  could  not  afford  to  pay  anything.  Finally 
it  was  arranged  to  put  baskets  at  the  door,  with 
placards  saying  that  anyone  who  chose  could 
give  something  towards  the  cost  of  the  meeting. 
When  it  was  over,  the  baskets  w^ere  found  to 
hold  over  four  bushels  of  pennies  and  ha'pen- 
nies. The  starving  poor  of  Lancashire  had 
given  them,  not  out  of  their  abundance,  but  out 
of  their  grinding  w^ant. 

This  was  the  widow's  mite,  many  times  mul- 
tiplied. 

The  crafty  Napoleon  the  Third,  ''  Napoleon 
the  Little,"  as  the  great  French  poet  and  nov- 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    179 

elist,  Victor  Hugo,  called  him,  asked  England 
to  have  the  English  fleet  join  the  French  fleet 
in  breaking  our  blockade  and  in  making  Slavery 
triumph.  England  hesitated  before  the  pro- 
posed crime,  but  finally  said  it  w^as  inclined  to 
follow  the  Napoleonic  lead,  if  Russia  would  do 
likewise.  Then  the  French  Emperor  wrote 
what  is  called  a  holographic  letter,  that  is,  a  let- 
ter entirely  in  his  own  handwriting,  to  the  then 
Czar  of  Russia,  asking  him  to  send  part  of  his 
fleet  on  the  unholy  raid  that  was  in  contempla- 
tion. 

Russia  was  then  a  despotism,  with  one  despot. 
It  was  not  only  a  European  and  an  Asiatic 
Power,  but  an  American  Power  as  well,  for  it 
did  not  sell  Alaska  to  the  United  States  until 
1867.  Despotism  does  not  like  to  see  Liberty 
flourish  anywhere,  least  of  all  near  itself.  Lib- 
erty is  a  contagious  thing.  Might  not  the 
American  example  infect  Alaska,  spread  through 
Siberia,  even  creep  to  the  steps  of  the  throne 
at  St.  Petersburg?  But  this  time,  thanks  to  the 
work  of  our  Minister  to  Russia  and  of  our  extra- 


i8o   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

official  representative  there,  the  Hon.  Thomas 
Strong,  Despotism  stood  by  Liberty.  The  Rus- 
sian Czar  wrote  the  French  Emperor  that  the 
Russian  fleet  would  not  be  a  party  to  the  pro- 
posed attack  upon  the  Northern  navy,  but  that 
on  the  contrary  it  was  about  to  sail  for  New 
York  in  order  that  its  commander  might  place 
it  at  the  disposal  of  the  President  of  the  United 
States  in  case  any  Franco-English  squadron  ap- 
peared with  hostile  intent  at  our  ocean-gates. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  traditional 
friendship  between  America  and  Russia.  It  ex- 
plains why  New  York  and  Washington  went 
mad  in  those  September  days  of  1863  in  wel- 
coming the  Russian  fleet  and  the  Russian  of- 
ficers. It  explains  why  Lincoln  told  Tom  that 
his  father  had  ''  deserved  well  of  the  Republic." 

It  was  at  about  this  time  that  John  Hay  once 
asked  Tom : 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  Tycoon  by  this 
time,  my  boy?  " 

"  Tycoon  "   and   ''  the  Ancient  "  were  names 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    i8i 

his  rather  irreverent  secretaries  had  given  Lin- 
coln. Nevertheless  they  both  reverenced  and 
loved  him.  Their  nicknames  for  him  were  born 
of  affection. 

''  Why,  why,"  Tom  began.  He  did  not  quite 
know  how  to  put  into  fitting  words  all  he  felt 
about  his  chief.  But  John  Hay,  who  was  never 
much  interested  in  the  opinion  on  anything  of 
anybody  but  himself,  went  on: 

'*  I'll  tell  you  what  he  is,  Tom.  He's  a  back- 
woods Jupiter.  He  sits  here  and  wields  both  the 
machinery  of  government  and  the  bolts  of  war. 
A  backwoods  Jupiter!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

Tom  Goes  to  Vicksburg — Morgan's  Raid — 
Gen.  Basil  W.  Duke  Captures  Tom — 
Gettysburg — Gen.  Robert  E.  Lee  Gives  Tom 
His  Breakfast — In  Libby  Prison — Lincoln's 
Speech  at  Gettysburg. 

T  ATE  in  June  of  1863  Tom  again  left  General 
Grant's  headquarters.  These  were  then  in 
the  outskirts  of  Vicksburg,  IMississippi.  The 
long  siege  of  that  town,  held  by  a  considerable 
Confederate  force  under  General  Pemberton, 
was  nearing  its  end.  Tom  longed  to  be  in  at 
the  death,  but  that  could  not  be.  He  had  been 
sent  with  dispatches  to  Grant  and  this  time 
there  had  been  no  suggestion  by  the  President 
that  he  might  fight  a  bit  if  he  felt  like  it.  So  he 
was  now  again  on  his  way  to  Washington.  He 
was  a  long  time  getting  there,  nearly  a  year;  and 
this  was  the  way  of  it. 

182 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    183 

July  2,  1863,  Gen.  John  H.  Morgan,  a  brilliant 
and  daring  Confederate  cavalry  commander,  got 
his  troops  across  the  Cumberland  River  at 
Burkesville,  in  southern  Kentucky,  on  flat-boats 
and  canoes  lashed  together.  None  but  he  and 
his  second  in  command  knew  whither  the  pro- 
posed raid  was  to  lead.  People  about  their 
starting-point  thought  Morgan  was  merely 
reconnoitering.  An  old  farmer  from  Calfkills 
Creek  went  along  uninvited,  because  he  wished 
to  buy  some  salt  at  a  "  salt-lick  "  a  few  miles 
north  of  Burkesville  and  within  the  Union  lines. 
He  expected  to  go  and  come  back  safely  with 
Morgan's  men.  After  he  had  been  through  a 
few  marches  and  more  fights  and  saw  no  chance 
of  ever  getting  home,  he  plaintively  said:  '*  I 
swar  ef  I  wouldn't  give  all  the  salt  in  Kaintucky 
to  stand  once  more  safe  and  sound  on  the  banks 
of  Calfkills  Creek." 

Tom  Strong,  second-lieutenant,  U.  S.  A.,  had 
not  reckoned  upon  John  H.  Morgan,  general 
C.  S.  A.,  when  he  planned  his  journey  eastward 
from    Cairo.      No    one    dreamed    that    Morgan 


184  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

would  dare  do  what  he  did  do.  The  Confeder- 
ate cavalry  rode  northward  across  Kentucky, 
with  one  or  two  skirmishes  per  day  to  keep  it 
busy.  It  crossed  the  Ohio  and  fought  for  the 
South  on  Northern  soil.  It  threatened  Cincin- 
nati. It  threw  southern  Indiana  and  Ohio  into 
a  frenzy  of  fear.  It  did  great  damage,  but 
damage  such  as  the  laws  of  civilized  warfare 
permit.  Morgan's  gallant  men  were  Americans. 
No  woman  or  child  was  harmed;  no  man  not 
under  arms  was  killed.  Military  stores  were 
seized  or  destroyed,  food  and  supplies  were 
taken,  bridges  were  burned,  railroads  were  torn 
up,  and  a  clean  sweep  was  made  of  all  the 
horses  to  be  found.  The  Confederate  cavalry 
was  in  sad  need  of  new  horses.  The  Union  of- 
ficer who  led  the  pursuit  of  Morgan  said,  in  his 
official  report:  ''His  system  of  horse-stealing 
was  perfect."  But  so  far  as  war  can  be  a  Chris- 
tian thing  Morgan  made  it  so. 

Now  the  railroad  which  suffered  most  from 
the  Confederate  raid  was  the  one  upon  which 
Tom  was  traveling  eastward.     The  train  he  had 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    185 

taken  came  to  a  sudden  stop  at  a  way-station  in 
Ohio,  where  a  red  flag  was  furiously  waved. 

*'  Morgan's  torn  up  the  track  just  ahead," 
shouted  the  man  who  held  the  flag. 

Nothing  more  could  be  learned  there  and 
then.  Of  course  the  raiders  had  cut  the  wires. 
By  and  by  fugitives  began  to  straggle  in  from 
the  eastward,  farmers  who  had  fled  from  their 
farms  driving  their  horses  before  them,  vil- 
lagers who  feared  the  sack  and  ruin  that  really 
came  to  no  one,  women  and  children  on  foot, 
on  horseback,  in  carts,  in  wagons,  in  buggies. 
Every  fugitive  had  a  new  tale  of  terror  to  tell, 
but  nobody  really  knew  anything.  Tom  ques- 
tioned each  newcomer.  Piecing  together  what 
they  said,  he  concluded  that  Morgan  had  swept 
northward;  that  the  track  had  been  destroyed 
for  but  a  mile  or  so,  possibly  less :  and  that  the 
quickest  way  for  him  to  get  to  AVashington  was 
to  walk  across  the  short  gap  and  get  a  train  or 
an  engine  on  the  other  side.  He  could  find  no 
one  who  would  go  with  him,  even  as  a  guide, 
but  well-meant  directions  were  showered  upon 


1 86   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

him.  So  were  well-meant  warnings,  about  ten 
warnings  to  one  direction.  The  railroad,  how- 
ever, was  his  best  guide-post.  He  started  east- 
ward, riding  a  horse  he  had  bought  from  one  of 
the  fugitives.  The  big  bay  brute  stood  over  six- 
teen hands  high,  but  the  price  Tom  paid  for  him 
was  a  good  deal  higher  than  the  horse. 

All  went  well  at  first.  He  soon  reached  the 
place  w^here  the  Confederates  had  wrecked  the 
railroad.  Their  work  had  been  thorough.  Every 
little  bridge  or  trestle  had  been  burned.  Rails 
and  ties  had  been  torn  up,  the  ties  massed  to- 
gether and  set  on  fire,  the  rails  thrown  upon  the 
burning  ties  and  twisted  by  the  heat  into  sinu- 
ous snakes  of  iron.  Occasionally  a  hot  rail  had 
been  twisted  about  a  tree  until  it  became  a  mere 
set  of  loops,  never  to  serve  again  the  purpose 
for  which  it  had  been  made.  The  telegraph 
poles  had  been  chopped  down  and  the  wires 
were  tangled  into  a  broken  and  useless  web. 
In  some  places  the  rails  had  entirely  disap- 
peared. Doubtless  these  had  been  thrown  into 
the  little  streams  which  the  burned  bridges  had 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    187 

spanned.  Altogether  the  road-bed  looked  as  if 
some  highly  intelligent  hurricane  and  earth- 
quake had  co-operated  in  its  destruction.  It 
would  be  many  a  day  before  a  train  could  again 
run  upon  it.  Morgan's  system  of  wrecking  a 
railroad  was  almost  as  perfect  as  his  system  of 
horse-stealing. 

A  country-road  wandered  along  beside  where 
the  railroad  had  been,  so  Tom's  progress  was 
easy.  Its  bridges,  too,  had  gone  up  in  smoke, 
but  the  little  streams  were  shallow  and  could  be 
forded  without  difficulty,  for  June  had  been 
rainless  and  hot  that  year.  The  few  houses  the 
boy  passed  were  shut-up  and  deserted.  The 
fear  of  Morgan  had  swept  the  countryside  bare 
of  man,  woman,  and  child.  The  solitude,  the 
unnatural  solitude  of  a  region  normally  full  of 
human  life,  told  on  Tom's  nerves.  He  longed  to 
see  a  human  being.  He  had  now  left  the  gap 
in  the  railroad  well  behind,  but  he  was  still  in 
an  Eden  without  an  Adam  or  an  Eve.  So,  as 
dusk  came,  he  rejoiced  to  see  the  gleam  of  a 
candle  in  a  farmhouse  not  far  ahead.    He  was  so 


1 88   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

sure  Morgan's  whole  command  was  by  this  time 
far  to  the  northward  that  he  galloped  gayly  up 
to  the  house — and,  perforce,  presented  to  the 
Confederacy  one  of  the  best  horses  seized  in  the 
entire  raid. 

The  eleam  had  come  from  a  back  window. 
The  whole  front  of  the  house  was  closed,  but 
that  is  common  in  rustic  places  and  Tom  was 
sure  he  would  find  the  family  in  the  kitchen, 
with  both  food  and  news  to  give  him.  Instead 
he  found  just  outside  the  kitchen,  as  he  and 
the  big  bay  turned  the  corner,  a  group  of  dis- 
mounted cavalrymen  in  Confederate  gray.  A 
mounted  officer  was  beside  them.  Two 
mounted  men,  one  carrying  a  guidon,  was 
nearby.  Tom  pulled  hard  on  his  right  rein,  to 
turn  and  run,  and  bent  close  to  his  saddle  to 
escape  the  bullets  he  expected.  But  one  of  the 
men  was  already  clutching  the  left  rein.  The 
horse  reared  and  plunged  and  kicked.  The 
rider,  to  his  infinite  disgust,  was  hurled  from 
the  saddle  and  landed  on  his  hands  and  knees  be- 
fore the  group.     It  was  rather  an  abject  position 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    189 

in  which  to  be  captured.  The  Southerners 
roared  with  good-humored  laughter  as  they 
picked  him  up.  Even  the  officer  smiled  at  the 
boy's  plight. 

Before  the  men,  on  a  table  outside  the 
kitchen  door,  lay  a  half-dozen  appetizing  apple 
pies,  evidently  of  that  day's  baking.  The 
farmer's  wife,  before  she  fled,  had  put  them 
there  with  the  hope  that  they  might  propitiate 
the  raiders,  if  they  came,  and  so  might  save 
the  house  from  destruction.  She  did  not  know 
that  Morgan's  men  did  not  make  war  that  way. 
Those  of  them  who  had  come  there  suspected 
a  trap  in  this  open  offer  of  the  pies. 

"  They  mout  be  pizened,"  one  trooper  sug- 
gested. ' 

At  that  moment,  when  they  were  hesitating 
between  hunger  and  fear,  Tom  butted  in  upon 
them  and  was  seized. 

''  Let  the  Yankee  sample  the  pies,"  shouted  a 
second  soldier  when  the  little  scurry  of  the  cap- 
ture was  over.  This  met  instant  approval  and 
Tom,  now  upon  his  feet,  was  being  pushed  for- 


190  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

ward  to  the  table  when  the  officer  spoke,  with 
a  smiHng  dignity  that  showed  he  was  the  friend 
as  well  as  the  commander  of  his  rude  soldiery. 

"  I'll  do  the  sampling,"  he  said.  "  Give  me  a 
pie." 

He  bit  with  strong  white  teeth  through  the 
savory  morsel  and  detected  no  foreign  taint. 
The  pies  vanished  forthwith,  half  of  one  of 
them  down  Tom's  hungry  throat.  Then  the 
officer  spoke  to  him. 

"  Son,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  you  borrowed  that 
uniform  somewhere,  didn't  you?  You're  too 
young  to  wear  it  by  right.    Who  are  you?" 

He  was  a  man  of  medium  height,  spare  but 
splendidly  built,  with  his  face  bronzed  by  long 
campaigning  in  the  open  air,  regular  features, 
piercing  black  eyes  that  twinkled,  but  could 
shoot  fire,  waving  black  hair  above  a  beautiful 
brow,  dazzling  white  teeth — altogether  a  vivid 
man.  His  mustache  and  imperial  were  black. 
He  was  as  handsome  as  Abraham  Lincoln  was 
plain,  yet  there  was  between  the  two,  the  one 
the  son  of  a  Southern  aristocrat,  the  other  the 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   191 


192   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

son  of  a  Southern  poor  white,  an  elusive  re- 
semblance. It  may  have  been  the  innate  noble- 
ness and  kindliness  of  both  men.  It  may  have 
been  the  Kentucky  blood  which  was  their  com- 
mon portion.  At  any  rate,  the  resemblance  was 
there. 

Tom  took  one  glance  at  the  chief  of  his  cap- 
tors and  then  saluted  with  real  respect  as  he 
replied: 

*'  I  am  Thomas  Strong,  sir,  second-lieutenant, 
U.  S.  A." 

"  Upon  my  word,  sir,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it. 
We  don't  make  war  on  boys.  If  you  had  been, 
as  I  thought,  just  masquerading  as  a  soldier,  I 
would  have  turned  you  loose  at  once.  Now  I 
must  take  you  with  us." 

Ten  minutes  afterwards,  the  little  group  with 
Tom,  disarmed  but  unbound,  in  the  middle  of 
it,  was  galloping  northeastward.  A  few  yards 
ahead  of  it  the  officer  rode  with  a  free  bridle 
rein,  chatting  with  an  aide  beside  him.  He  rode 
like  a  centaur.  Tom  thought  him  one  of  the 
finest  soldiers  he  had  ever  seen.    And  so  he  was. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   193 

He  was  Gen.  Basil  W.  Duke,  brother-in-law, 
second  in  command,  and  historian  of  General 
Morgan.  He  was  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman, 
if  ever  God  made  one. 

A  fortnight  later,  a  fortnight  of  almost  con- 
stant fighting,  much  of  it  with  home-guards  and 
militia  who  feared  Morgan  too  much  to  fight 
him  hard,  but  part  of  it  with  seasoned  soldiers 
who  fought  as  good  Americans  should,  Morgan 
crossed  the  Ohio  again  into  the  comparative 
safety  of  West  Virginia.  He  took  across  with 
him  his  few  prisoners,  including  Tom.  Then, 
finding  that  the  mass  of  his  brigade  had  been 
cut  off  from  crossing,  the  Confederate  general 
detached  a  dozen  men  to  take  the  prisoners 
south  while  he  himself  with  most  of  the  troopers 
with  him  recrossed  to  where  danger  beckoned. 
On  July  26,  1862,  at  Salineville,  Ohio,  not  far 
from  Pittsburg,  trapped,  surrounded,  and  out- 
numbered, he  surrendered  with  the  364  men 
who  were  all  that  were  left  of  his  gallant  band. 
Our  government  made  the  mistake  of  treating 
him  and  his  officers  not  as  captured  soldiers  but 


194   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

as  arrested  bandits.  They  were  sent  to  the  Ohio 
State  Penitentiary,  whence  Morgan  made  a  dar- 
ing escape  not  long  afterwards.  He  made  his 
way  to  freedom  on  Southern  soil.  Meanwhile, 
Tom  had  been  taken  to  captivity  on  that  same 
soil.  He  was  in  Libby  Prison,  at  the  Confed- 
erate Capital,  Richmond,  Virginia. 

His  journey  thither  had  been  long  and  hard 
and  uneventful,  except  for  the  gradual  loss  of 
the  few  things  he  had  with  him.  His  pistol 
and  his  money  had  been  taken  when  he  was 
first  captured.  Now,  as  he  was  turned  over  to 
one  Confederate  command  after  another,  bit  by 
bit  his  belongings  disappeared.  His  boots  went 
early  in  the  journey.  His  cap  was  plucked  from 
his  head.  His  uniform  was  eagerly  seized  by 
a  Confederate  spy,  who  meant  to  use  it  in  get- 
ting inside  the  Union  lines.  When  he  was  finally 
turned  over  to  the  Provost  Marshal  of  the  chief 
Confederate  army,  commanded  by  Gen.  Robert 
E.  Lee,  he  was  bareheaded  and  barefoot  and 
had  nothing  to  wear  except  an  old  Confederate 
gray  shirt  and  the  ragged  remains  of  what  had 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    195 

once  been  a  pair  of  Confederate  gray  trousers, 
held  about  his  waist  by  a  string.  He  was 
hungry  and  tired  and  unbelievably  dirty.  The 
one  good  meal  he  had  had  on  his  long  march 
had  been  given  him  at  Frederick,  Maryland,  by 
a  delightful  old  lady  whom  Tom  always  believed 
to  be  Barbara  Frietchie. 

It  was  August  now.  On  July  4,  Grant  had 
taken  Vicksburg  and  Meade  had  defeated  Lee 
at  Gettysburg.  The  doom  of  the  Confederacy 
had  begun  to  dawn.  None  the  less  Robert  E. 
Lee's  tattered  legions,  forced  back  from  the 
great  offensive  in  Pennsylvania  to  the  stubborn 
defense  of  Richmond,  trusted,  worshiped,  and 
loved  their  great  general. 

Meade,  the  Union  commander,  by  excess  of 
caution,  had  let  Lee  escape  after  Gettysburg. 
He  did  not  attack  the  retreating  foe.  Lincoln 
was  deeply  grieved. 

"  We  had  them  within  our  grasp,"  he  said, 
throwing  out  his  long  arms.  "  We  had  only  to 
stretch   forth   our   hands   and   they   were   our^ 


196   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

And  nothing  I  could  say  or  do  could  make  our 


armv  move." 


Four  days  afterwards,  General  Wadsworth  of 
New  York,  a  gallant  fighter,  one  of  the  corps 
commanders  who  had  tried  to  spur  the  too- 
prudent  Meade  into  attacking,  came  to  the 
White  House. 

"Why  did  Lee  escape?"  Lincoln  eagerly 
asked  him. 

"  Because  nobody  stopped  him." 

And  that  was  the  truth  of  it.  If  Lee  had  been 
stopped,  the  war  would  have  ended  nearly  two 
years  before  it  did  end.  It  is  a  wonderful  proof 
of  Lincoln's  wonderful  sense  of  justice  that 
though  he  repeated:  ''Our  army  held  the  war 
in  the  hollow  of  their  hand  and  they  would  not 
close  it,"  he  added  at  once:  ''Still,  I  am  very, 
very  grateful  to  Meade  for  the  great  service  he 
did  at  Gettysburg." 

Lee  was  a  son  of  "  Light-Horse  Harry  "  Lee, 
the  daring  cavalry  commander  of  the  Revolution 
and   the   author  of  the  immortal   phrase  about 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    197 

Washington :  ''  First  in  war,  first  in  peace,  and 
first  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen."  Robert 
E.  Lee  had  had  an  honorable  career  at  West 
Point  and  in  the  war  with  Mexico  and  was  Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel of  Engineers  in  the  United 
States  army  when  the  war  between  the  States 
began.  He  loved  his  country  and  her  flag,  but 
he  had  been  bred  in  the  belief  that  his  loyalty 
was  due  first  to  Virginia  rather  than  to  the 
Union.  When  the  Old  Dominion,  after  first 
refusing  to  secede,  finally  did  so,  Lieut. -Col.  Lee, 
U.  S.  A.,  became  General  Lee,  C.  S.  A.  Great 
efforts  were  made  to  keep  him  on  the  Union 
side.  It  is  said  he  was  offered  the  chief  com- 
mand of  our  army.  Sadly  he  did  his  duty  as  he 
saw  it.  He  put  aside  the  offers  made  him,  re- 
signed his  commission,  and  left  Arlington  for 
Richmond. 

Arlington,  now  a  vast  cemetery  of  Union  sol- 
diers, crowns  a  hill  on  the  Virginia  side  of  the 
Potomac.  The  city  of  Washington  lies  at  its 
feet.  The  valley  of  the  Potomac  spreads  before 
it.    From  the  portico  of  the  old-fashioned  house, 


198   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

a  portico  upheld  by  many  columns,  one  can  look 
towards  Mt.  Vernon,  not  many  miles  away,  but 
hid  from  sight  by  clustering  hills.  The  house 
was  built  in  1802  by  George  Washington  Parke 
Custis,  son  of  Washington's  stepson,  who  was 
his  aide  at  Yorktown  in  1783,  and  grandson  of 
Martha  Washington.  Parke  Custis,  who  died  in 
1858,  directed  in  his  will  that  his  slaves  should 
be  freed  in  five  years.  Lee,  his  son-in-law  and 
executor,  scrupulously  freed  them  in  1863  and 
gave  them  passes  through  the  Confederate  lines. 
He  had  already  given  freedom  to  his  own  slaves. 
Long  before  the  war,  he  wrote  from  Fort 
Brown,  Texas,  to  his  wife :  "  In  this  enlight- 
ened age  there  are  few,  I  believe,  but  will 
acknowledge  that  slavery  as  an  institution,  is  a 
moral  and  political  evil  in  any  country.  .  .  . 
I  think  it  is  a  greater  evil  to  the  white  than  the 
black  race." 

Robert  E.  Lee  was  one  of  the  greatest  four 
Virginians.  He  ranks  with  George  Washing- 
ton, George  Mason,  and  Thomas  Jefferson.  No 
praise    could    be    greater.      When    "  the    Lost 


Arlingtun 

Copyright    hy    I'nderwood    &    Underwood.    New    York. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout    199 

Cause,"  as  the  Southerners  fondly  call  their 
great  fight  for  what  they  believed  to  be  right, 
reeled  down  to  decisive  defeat,  the  general 
whom  they  had  worshiped  in  war  proved  him- 
self a  great  patriot  in  peace.  His  last  years  were 
passed  as  President  of  Washington  and  Lee 
University  in  Virginia.  Long  before  his  death, 
his  name  was  honored  by  every  fair-minded 
man  on  the  Northern  as  well  as  the  Southern 
side  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line.  One  of  the 
noblest  eulogies  of  him  was  voiced  upon  the 
centennial  of  his  birth,  January  9,  1907,  at  Wash- 
ington and  Lee  University,  by  Charles  Francis 
Adams.  The  best  blood  of  Massachusetts  hon- 
ored the  best  blood  of  Virginia.  Our  country 
was  then  again  one  country  and  all  of  it  was 
free. 

Tom  Strong  was  standing  with  a  group  of 
other  prisoners,  all  Northern  officers,  under 
guard,  beside  the  Provost  Marshal's  tent  at 
Lee's  headquarters.  These  were  upon  a  little 
knoll,  from  which  the  eye  ranged  over  the  long 


20O  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

lines  of  rotten  tents,  huts,  and  heaps  of  brush 
that  gave  such  shelter  as  they  could  to  the 
ragged,  hungry,  and  undaunted  legions  of  the 
Confederacy.  I"^.  was  early  in  the  morning. 
Scanty  breakfasts  were  cooking  over  a  thousand 
fires.  From  the  cook-tent  at  headquarters, 
there  came  an  odor  of  bubbling  coffee  that  made 
the  prisoners'  hunger  the  harder  to  bear.  The 
whole  camp  was  strangely  silent. 

Then,  in  the  distance,  there  was  a  storm  of 
cheering.  It  gained  in  sound  and  shrillness. 
The  soldiers  poured  out  of  their  tents  by  the 
thousand.  Those  who  had  hats  waved  them; 
those  who  had  not  waved  their  arms;  and  every 
throat  joined  in  the  famous  "  rebel  yell.'* 
Through  the  shouting  thousands  rode  a  half- 
dozen  superbly  mounted  horsemen,  at  their 
head  a  gallant  figure,  with  close-cropped  white 
beard,  whiskers,  and  mustache,  seated  upon  a 
superb  iron-gray  horse,  sixteen  hands  high,  the 
famous  Traveler. 

It  was  Robert  E.  Lee,  the  one  hope  of  the 
Confederacy.     Even  his  iron  self-control  almost 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   201 


;i:K'^' 


w 

< 

H 

z 

o 

w 

w 

CO 

o 
o 


202   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

broke,  as  he  saw  the  passionate  joy  with  which 
he  was  hailed  by  the  survivors  of  the  gallant 
gray  army  he  had  launched  in  vain  against  the 
bayonet-crowned  hills  of  Gettysburg.  A  flush 
almost  as  red  as  that  of  youth  crept  across  his 
pale  cheeks  and  a  mist  crept  into  his  eyes.  His 
charger  bore  him  proudly  up  the  grassy  knoll 
where  the  Union  prisoners  were  huddled  to- 
gether. As  his  glance  swept  over  them,  he 
noted  with  surprise  the  youthfulness  of  the  boy 
who  stood  in  the  front  line.  Many  a  boy  as 
young  as  Tom  or  even  younger  was  in  the  ranks 
Lee  led.  Many  an  old  man  bent  under  the 
weight  of  his  gun  in  those  ranks.  The  Confed- 
eracy, by  this  time  almost  bled  white,  was  said 
to  have  "  robbed  the  cradle  and  the  grave  "  to 
keep  its  armies  at  fighting  strength.  The  North, 
with  many  more  millions  of  people,  had  not  been 
driven  to  do  this.  Tom  was  one  of  the  few 
boys  in  the  armies  of  the  Union. 

"Who  is  this?"  asked  Lee,  as  he  checked 
Traveler  before  the  group. 

"  Thomas  Strong,  sir,"  answered  the  boy. 


i{ 


a 


(( 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  203 

*'Your  rank?" 
Second-lieutenant,  sir." 
Where  were  you  captured?" 
In  Ohio,  sir,  by  General  Morgan." 
Tom   was   faint  with  hunger  as  he  was  put 
through  this  little  catechism.     As  he  made  the 
last  answer,  he  reeled  against  the  next  prisoner, 
Col,  Thomas  E.  Rose,  of  Indiana,  who  caught 
and  held  him.      Lee   misunderstood   the   move- 
ment.    His  lip  curled  with  disgust  as  he  said: 
"Are  you — a  boy — drunk?" 
Tom  was  too  far  gone  to  answer,  but  Rose 
and  a  half-dozen  others  answered  for  him. 
Not  drunk,  but  hungry.  General. 
I  beg  your  pardon,"  the  courteous  Virginian 
replied,   "  but  at  least  you  shall  be  hungry  no 
longer.    My  staff  and  I  will  postpone  our  break- 
fast until  you  have  eaten.     Pompey!"     An  old 
negro  came  out  of  the  cook-tent.     He  had  been 
one    of     George     Washington     Parke     Custis's 
slaves.     When   freed,   he   had  refused   to  leave 
"  Marse   Robert,"  whose  cook  he  had  become. 
He  wore  the  remains  of  a  Confederate  uniform. 


n 


a 


204  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

''  Pompey,  give  these  gentlemen  our  breakfast. 
We  will  wait." 

''  But — but — Marse  Robert,  I'se  dun  got  real 
coffee  dis  mornin'." 

*'  Our  involuntary  guests,"  said  Lee  w^ith  a 
gentle  smile  as  he  turned  to  the  prisoners,  **  will, 
I  hope,  enjoy  the  real  coffee." 

And  enjoy  it  they  did.  It  and  the  cornbread 
and  bacon  that  came  with  it  were  nectar  and 
ambrosia  to  the  hungry  prisoners.  The  only 
fleck  upon  the  feast  was  when  one  of  them,  in 
his  hurry  to  be  served,  spoke  rudely  to  old 
Pompey.  The  negro  turned  away  without  a 
word,  but  his  feelings  were  deeply  hurt.  When 
the  Union  of^cer  hurled  after  him  a  word  of 
foul  abuse,  Pompey  turned  back,  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  ragged  uniform,  and  said : 

"  I  doesn't  objeck  to  de  pussonal  cussin',  sah, 
but  you  must  'speck  de  unicorn." 

After  that  the  ''  unicorn  "  and  the  fine  old 
negro  who  wore  it  were  both  amply  respected. 
When  everything  in  sight  had  been  eaten,  the 
prisoners  were   ordered   to   fall   in   line.     Their 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  205 

guards  stood  in  front  of  the  little  column,  beside 
it,  behind  it. 

''  Forward,  march  !  " 

They  marched  southward  for  a  few  miles, 
tramped  through  the  swarming,  somber  streets 
of  Richmond,  and  reached  Libby  Prison.  Its 
doors  closed  behind  them  with  a  clang.  Cap- 
tivity in  the  open  had  been  hard  enough  to  bear. 
This  new  kind  of  captivity,  within  doors,  with 
barred  windows,  was  to  be  harder  yet.  Tom 
was  to  spend  six  weary  months  in  Libby  Prison. 

It  was  while  he  was  there  that  Abraham  Lin- 
coln made  his  wonderful  Gettysburg  speech. 

The  battlefield  of  Gettysburg  was  made 
sacred  by  the  men  who  died  there  for  Free- 
dom's sake  and  also  by  the  men  who  died  there 
for  the  sake  of  what  they  honestly  thought  were 
the  rights  of  the  Slave  States.  Congress  made 
the  battlefield  a  Soldiers'  Cemetery.  It  was  to 
be  dedicated  to  its  great  memories  on  November 
19,  1863.  The  morning  before  a  special  train 
left    Washington    for    Gettysburg.      It    carried 


2o6  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

President  Lincoln,  Secretary  of  State  Seward, 
two  other  members  of  the  Cabinet,  the  two  pri- 
vate secretaries,  Nicolay  and  Hay,  the  distin- 
guished Pennsylvanian,  Wayne  MacVeagh, 
later  U.  S.  Attorney-General  and  later  still  our 
Minister  to  Italy,  and  others  of  lesser  note. 
Among  those  latter  was  the  Hon.  Thomas 
Strong,  w^ho  had  been  made  one  of  the  party  by 
Lincoln's  kind  thoughtfulness.  It  was  he  who 
afterwards  told  his  son  the  story  of  Lincoln's 
Gettysburg  speech,  scarcely  regarded  at  the  mo- 
ment, but  long  since  recognized  as  one  of  the 
masterpieces  of  English  literature. 

The  little  town  of  Gettysburg  was  in  a  fer- 
ment that  November  night,  when  the  Presi- 
dent's train  arrived.  It  was  full  of  people  and 
bands  and  whisky.  Crowds  strolled  through 
the  streets,  serenading  statesmen  and  calling  for 
speeches  with  an  American  crowd's  insatiable 
appetite  for  talky-talk.  "  MacVeagh,"  says 
Hay,  ''  made  a  most  beautiful  and  touching 
speech  of  five  minutes,"  but  another  Pennsyl- 
vanian   made    a    most   disgusting   and   drunken 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   207 

speech  of  many  minutes.  Lincoln  and  most  of 
his  party  of  course  had  no  share  in  all  this  brawl- 
ing merriment.  He  and  Seward  had  talked 
briefly  to  shouting  thousands  early  in  the 
evening. 

On  the  way  up  from  Washington,  the  Presi- 
dent had  sat  in  a  sad  abstraction.  He  took  little 
part  in  the  talk  that  buzzed  about  him.  Once, 
when  MacVeagh  was  vehemently  declaiming 
about  the  way  the  Southern  magnates  were  mis- 
leading the  Southern  masses,  Lincoln  said  with 
a  weary  smile  one  of  those  sayings  of  his  which 
will  never  be  forgotten.  "  You  can  fool  part  of 
the  people  all  the  time;  you  can  fool  all  the 
people  part  of  the  time;  but  you  can't  fool  all 
the  people  all  the  time."  Then  he  became  silent 
again.  He  did  not  know  what  he  was  to  say 
on  the  morrow.  The  chief  oration  was  to  be 
by  Edward  Everett  of  Massachusetts,  a  trained 
orator,  fluent  and  finished  in  polished  phrase. 
He  had  been  Governor  of  INIassachusetts,  Min- 
ister to  England,  Secretary  of  State,  United 
States    Senator.       He    was    handsome,    distin- 


2o8  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

guished,  graceful.  The  ungainly  President  felt 
that  he  and  his  words  would  be  but  a  foil  to 
Everett  and  his  sonorous  sentences,  sentences 
that  were  sure  to  come  rolling  in  like  "  the 
surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey."  Everett  had 
graduated  from  Harvard,  Lincoln  from  a  log- 
cabin.  Both  must  face  on  the  morrow  the  same 
audience. 

The  President  searched  his  pockets  and  found 
the  stub  of  a  pencil.  From  the  aisle  of  the  car, 
he  picked  up  a  piece  of  brown  wrapping  paper, 
thrown  there  by  Seward,  who  had  just  opened 
a  package  of  books  in  the  opposite  seat.  He 
penciled  a  few  words,  bent  his  head  upon  his 
great  knotted  hand  in  thought,  then  penciled  a 
few  more.  Then  he  struck  out  some  words  and 
added  others,  read  his  completed  task  and  did 
not  find  it  good.  He  shook  his  head,  stuffed  the 
brown  wrapping  paper  into  his  pocket,  and  took 
up  again  his  interrupted  talk  with  MacVeagh. 

At  eleven  the  next  morning,  from  an  open-air 
platform  on  the  battlefield,  Everett  held  the  vast 
audience  through  two  hours  of  fervent  speech, 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   209 

fervent  with  patriotism,  fervent  also  with  bit- 
terness against  the  men  he  called  "  the  South- 
ern rebels."  His  speech  was  literature  and  his 
voice  was  music.  As  the  thunder  of  his  perora- 
tion ended  a  thunderstorm  of  applause  began. 
When  it,  too,  died  away,  there  shambled  to  the 
front  of  the  platform  an  ungainly,  badly  dressed 
man,  contrasting  sharply  and  in  every  way  dis- 
advantageously  with  Everett  of  the  silver 
tongue.  This  man's  tongue  betrayed  him  too. 
He  tried  to  pitch  his  voice  to  reach  all  that  vast 
audience  and  his  first  words  came  in  a  squeaking 
falsetto.  A  titter  ran  through  the  crowd.  Lin- 
coln stopped  speaking.  There  were  a  few  sec- 
onds of  painful  silence.  Then  he  came  to  his 
own.  With  a  voice  enriched  by  a  passionate 
sincerity,  he  began  again  and  finished  his  Get- 
tysburg speech.     Here  it  is: 

"  Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago,  our  fathers 
brought  forth  on  this  Continent  a  new  nation, 
conceived  in  liberty  and  dedicated  to  the  propo- 
sition that  all  men  are  created  equal.  Now  we 
are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether 


210  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

that  nation,  or  any  nation,  so  conceived  and  so 
dedicated,  can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a 
great  battlefield  of  that  war.  We  have  come  to 
dedicate  a  portion  of  it  as  a  final  resting-place 
for  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that 
nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and 
proper  that  we  should  do  this.  But  in  a  larger 
sense  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate, 
we  cannot  hallow,  this  ground.  The  brave  men, 
living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have  con- 
secrated it  far  above  our  poor  power  to  add  or 
to  detract.  The  world  will  little  note  nor  long 
remember  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never 
forget  what  they  did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the  liv- 
ing, rather,  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfin- 
ished work  which  they  who  fought  here  have 
thus  far  so  nobly  advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us 
to  be  here  dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining 
before  us — that  from  these  honored  dead  we 
take  increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which 
they  here  gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devo- 
tion— that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these 
dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain;  that  this  nation, 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  211 

under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom; 
and  that  government  of  the  people,  by  the  peo- 
ple, for  the  people  shall  not  perish  from  the 
earth." 

The  President  ceased  to  speak.  There  was  no 
thunderstorm  of  applause  such  as  had  followed 
Everett's  studied  sentences  and  polished  periods. 
There  was  no  applause  at  all.  One  long  stir  of 
emotion  throbbed  through  the  silent  throng,  but 
did  not  break  the  silence.  Then  the  multitude 
dispersed,  talking  of  what  Everett  had  said, 
thinking  of  what  Lincoln  had  said.  Most  of  the 
notables  on  the  platform  thought  the  President's 
speech  a  failure.  Time  has  shown  that  it  was 
one  of  the  greatest  things  even  he  ever  did. 

Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews  has  writ- 
ten in  her  short  story  "  The  Perfect  Tribute  " 
the  history  of  the  Gettysburg  speech.  The  boy 
who  would  know  what  manner  of  man  our 
Abraham  Lincoln  was  should  read  "  The  Per- 
fect Tribute."  One  of  the  characters  in  the 
story,  a  dying  Confederate  officer,  says  to  Lin- 
coln without  knowing  to  whom  he  was  speak- 


212  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

ing:  ''The  speech  so  went  home  to  the  hearts 
of  all  those  thousands  of  people  that  when  it 
ended  it  was  as  if  the  whole  audience  held  its 
breath — there  was  not  a  hand  lifted  to  applaud. 
One  might  as  well  applaud  the  Lord's  prayer — 
it  would  be  sacrilege.  And  they  all  felt  it — 
down  to  the  lowest.  There  was  a  long  minute 
of  reverent  silence,  no  sound  from  all  that  great 
throng — it  seems  to  me,  an  enemy,  that  it  was 
the  most  perfect  tribute  that  has  ever  been  paid 
by  any  people  to  any  orator." 

The  Gettysburg  speech  was  not  for  the  mo- 
ment.    It  is  for  all  time. 


CHAPTER  X 

Tom  is  Hungry — He  Learns  to  "  Spoon  "  by 
Squads — The  Bullet  at  the  Window — 
Working  on  the  Tunnel — ''  Rat  Hell  " — 
The  Risk  of  the  Roll-call — What  Hap- 
pened TO  Jake  Johnson,  Confederate  Spy — - 
Tom  in  Libby  Prison — Hans  Rolf  Attends 
Him — Hans  Refuses  to  Escape — The  Flight 
Through  the  Tunnel — Free,  but  How  to 
Stay  So? 

WT  HEN  the  war  between  the  States  began, 
Libby  &  Son  were  a  thriving  firm  of  mer- 
chants in  Richmond.  They  owned  a  big  ware- 
house, which  fronted  on  Carey  Street  and  ex- 
tended back  over  land  that  sloped  down  to 
another  street,  which  occupied  all  the  space  be- 
tween the  southern  wall  of  the  warehouse  and 
the  canal  that  here  bordered  the  James  River. 
The  building  was  full  before  the  war  of  that 
rich  Virginia  tobacco  which  Thackeray  praises  in 

213 


214  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

'*  The  Virginians  "  and  which  the  worn-out  lands 
of  the  Old  Dominion  can  no  longer  produce. 

The  prisoners  in  Libby  had  painfully  little  to 
eat.    The  whole  South  was  hungry.    When  Con- 


LIBBY  PRISOX  AFTER  THE  WAR 

federate  soldiers  were  starving,  Confederate 
prisoners  could  not  expect  to  fatten.  Nor  was 
this  the  only  evil  thing.  The  prison  was  in- 
describably unclean.  The  cellar  and  the  lower 
floor,  upon  which  no  prisoners  were  allowed 
except  in  the  dining-room  in  the  middle  of  the 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  215 

floor  and  the  hospital,  swarmed  with  huge  rats 
which  cUmbed  upstairs  at  night  and  nipped 
mouthfuls  of  human  flesh  when  thev  could. 
There  was  no  furniture.  The  prisoners  slept  on 
the  floor,  so  crowded  together  that  they  had  to 
lie  spoon  fashion  in  order  to  lie  down  at  all. 
They  had  divided  themselves  into  squads  and 
had  chosen  commanders.  Tom  found  himself 
assigned  to  Squad  Number  Four.  The  first 
night,  when  he  had  at  last  sunk  into  uncom- 
fortable sleep  upon  the  hard  floor,  he  was  awak- 
ened by  the  sharp  command  of  the  captain  of 
his  group : 

"Attention,  Squad  No.  Four!  Prepare  to 
spoon!     One,  two,  spoon!" 

The  squad  flopped  over,  from  one  weary 
bruised  side  to  another.  It  seemed  to  the  worn- 
out  boy  that  he  had  just  ''  spooned,"  when  again 
he  waked  to  hear  the  queer  command  and  again 
he  flopped.     This  was  a  sample  of  many  nights. 

On  the  following  morning  Tom  had  one  of  the 
narrow  escapes  of  his  life.  He  was  leaning 
against  one  of  the  barred  windows,  looking  at 


2i6  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

the  broad  valley  of  the  James,  when  he  was  sud- 
denly seized  violently  by  the  arm  and  jerked  to 
one  side.  His  arm  ached  with  the  vice-like  grip 
that  had  been  laid  upon  it  and  his  knees,  sticking 
through  his  torn  trousers,  had  been  barked 
against  the  floor,  as  he  was  dragged  back,  but 
he  turned  to  the  man  who  had  laid  hold  of  him, 
not  with  anger,  but  with  thankfulness.  For,  at 
the  second  he  had  been  seized  a  bullet  had 
whizzed  through  the  window  just  where  his 
head  had  been.  If  he  had  not  been  jerked  away, 
the  Chronicles  of  Tom  Strong  would  have  ended 
then  and  there. 

If  Tom  was  not  angry,  the  man  was.  He 
glared  at  him. 

"  You  little  fool,  don't  you  know  better  than 
that?" 

When  the  boy  heard  himself  called  a  fool,  he 
did  become  angry,  but  after  all  this  big  person 
had  saved  his  life,  even  if  he  did  call  him  names. 
So  he  swallowed  his  wrath — which  is  an  excel- 
lent thing  to  do  with  wrath — and  answered 
quite  meekly: 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  wScout  217 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't  know  better.  Can't  we  look 
out  of  the  windows?  " 

"  Hasn't  anybody  told  you  that?  " 

"No,  sir." 

*'  Then  I  shouldn't  have  called  you  a  fool." 
Tom  smiled  and  nodded  in  acceptance  of  the 
implied  apology.  ^'  The  sentries  outside  have 
orders  to  fire  whenever  they  see  anybody  at  a 
window.  Last  week  two  men  were  killed  that 
way.  I  thought  you  were  a  goner,  sure,  when 
I  saw  you  looking  out.  Sorry  if  I  hurt  you,  but 
it's  better  to  be  hurt  than  to  be  killed.     Shake." 

The  boy  wrung  the  big  man's  hand  and 
thanked  him  for  his  timely  aid.  They  strolled 
together  up  and  down  the  big  room  now  de- 
serted by  most  of  its  occupants,  who  had  begun 
below  their  patient  wait  for  dinner.  The  man 
was  Colonel  Rose.  He  found  Tom  to  his  liking. 
And  he  needed  an  intelligent  boy  in  his  busi- 
ness. Just  then  Colonel  Rose's  business  was  to 
escape.  This  seemed  hopeless,  but  the  Colonel 
did  not  think  so.  Yet  it  had  been  often  tried 
and  had  always  failed.     When  several  hundred 


2i8  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

intelligent  Americans  are  shut  up,  through  no 
fault  of  their  own,  in  a  most  unpleasant  prison, 
with  nothing  to  do,  they  are  quite  certain  to 
find  something  to  do  by  planning  an  escape  and 
by  trying  to  make  the  plan  a  reality.  One  trou- 
ble about  the  former  plans  at  Libby  had  been 
that  the  whole  mass  of  prisoners  had  known 
about  them.  There  must  always  be  leaders  in 
such  an  enterprise,  but  hitherto  the  leaders  had 
taken  the  crowd  into  their  confidence.  Now 
there  were  Confederate  spies  in  the  crowd,  sham 
prisoners.  The  former  plots  had  always  been 
found  out.  Once  or  twice  they  had  been  allowed 
to  ripen  and  the  first  fugitives  had  found  their 
first  free  breath  their  last,  for  they  had  stum- 
bled into  a  trap  and  had  been  instantly  shot 
down  upon  the  threshold  of  freedom.  i\Iore 
often  the  ringleaders  had  disappeared,  spirited 
away  without  warning  and  probably  shot,  while 
their  scared  followers  had  been  left  to  despair. 
Rose  had  learned  the  history  of  all  the  past  at- 
tempts. He  planned  along  new  lines.  He  de- 
cided upon  absolute  secrecy,  except  for  the  men 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  219 

who  were  actually  to  do  the  work.  This  work 
involved  a  good  deal  of  burrowing  into  holes 
that  must  be  particularly  narrow  at  first  and 
never  very  big.  A  strong,  lithe  boy  could  get 
into  a  hole  where  a  stout  man  could  not  go. 
Once  in,  he  could  enlarge  it  so  that  many  men 
could  follow.  Colonel  Rose  wanted  a  human 
mole.  He  had  picked  Tom  Strong  for  the  job. 
Now,  in  whispered  sentences,  he  told  the  boy 
of  the  plan  and  asked  his  aid.  Tom's  shining 
eyes  threatened  to  tell  how  important  the  talk 
was. 

"  Act  as  though  you  were  uninterested,  my 
boy,"  Colonel  Rose  warned  him.  "  Keep  your 
eyelids  down.     Yawn  occasionally." 

So  Tom  tried  to  look  dull,  which  was  not  at 
all  his  natural  appearance.  He  studied  the 
floor  as  if  he  expected  to  find  diamonds  upon  it. 
He  yawned  so  prodigiously  as  to  attract  the 
attention  he  was  trying  to  escape.  An  amateur 
actor  is  apt  to  overact  his  part.  And  all  the 
time  he  was  listening  with  a  passionate  interest 
to  Colonel  Rose's  story  of  the  way  to  freedom. 


220  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

Of  course  he  was  glad  to  try  to  help  make  the 
hope  a  fact. 

That  night  the  work  began.  The  kitchen 
dining-hall  was  deserted  from  lo  p.m.  to  4  a.m., 
so  it  was  selected  as  the  field  of  operation.  Be- 
low the  kitchen  was  the  carpenter-shop.  No 
opening  could  be  made  into  that  without  instant 
detection.  On  the  same  floor  with  the  kitchen 
and  just  east  of  it  was  the  hospital.  That  room 
must  be  avoided  too.  Below  the  hospital  was 
an  unused  cellar,  half  full  of  rotting  straw  and 
all  full  of  squealing  rats.  It  was  called  ''  Rat 
Hell."  Outside  of  it  was  a  small  sewer  that 
led  to  a  larger  one  which  passed  under  the  canal 
and  emptied  its  contents  into  the  James  River. 
These  sewers  were  to  be  the  highway  to  free- 
dom. The  first  step  must  be  to  get  from  the 
kitchen  to  Rat  Hell.  To  do  this  it  was  neces- 
sary to  dig  through  a  solid  stone  wall  a  reversed 
"  S,"  like  this : 


The  upper  end  of  the  secret  passage  was  to 
open  into  the  kitchen  fireplace,  the  lower  into 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  221 

Rat  Hell.  There  were  fourteen  men  in  the 
secret,  besides  Tom.  Between  them,  they  had 
just  one  tool,  an  old  knife.  One  of  them  owned 
a  bit  of  burlap,  used  sometimes  as  a  mattress 
and  sometimes  as  a  bed-quilt.  It  had  a  new 
use  now.  It  was  spread  upon  the  kitchen  hearth 
in  the  midnight  darkness  and  a  pile  of  soot  was 
pulled  down  upon  it.  Then  the  mortar  between 
a  dozen  bricks  at  the  back  of  the  fireplace  was 
cut  out  with  the  knife  and  the  bricks  pried  out 
of  place.  This  was  done  by  Major  A.  G.  Ham- 
ilton, Colonel  Rose's  chief  assistant.  He  care- 
fully replaced  the  bricks  and  flung  handfuls  of 
soot  over  them.  He  and  Rose  crept  upstairs, 
carrying  the  sooty  bit  of  burlap  with  them,  and 
slept  through  what  was  left  of  the  night.  The 
next  day  was  an  anxious  time  for  them.  When 
they  went  down  to  the  kitchen,  where  a  couple 
of  hundred  men  were  gathered,  it  seemed  to 
them  that  the  marks  of  their  toil  by  night  were 
too  plain  not  to  be  seen  by  some  of  them.  Their 
nervousness  made  them  poor  judges.  Nobody 
saw  what  had  been  done.     That  night,  as  soon 


222  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

as   the  last  straggler  left,   Rose   and   Hamilton 
again  removed  the  bricks  and  attacked  the  stub- 
born  stone   behind   the   fireplace.      Fortunately 
the  stones  were  not  large.    Bit  by  bit  they  were 
pried  out  of  the  loosened  mortar. 

Now  came  Tom's  chance  to  serve  the  good 
cause.  He  was  a  proud  boy,  a  few  nights  later, 
when  he  was  permitted  to  go  down  to  the 
kitchen  with  the  Colonel  and  the  Major,  in  order 
that  he  might  creep  into  the  hole  they  had  made 
and  enlarge  it.  His  heels  wiggled  in  the  air. 
He  laid  upon  his  stomach  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  reversed  *'  S "  and  plied  the  old  knife  as 
vigorously  as  it  could  be  plied  without  making 
a  tell-tale  noise.  When  he  had  widened  the  pas- 
sage, one  of  the  men  took  his  place  in  it  and 
drove  it  downward.  One  night  Colonel  Rose 
in  his  eagerness  got  into  the  opening  before 
the  lower  part  of  it  had  been  sufficiently 
enlarged  and  stuck  there.  It  was  only  by 
a  terrible  effort  that  Hamilton  and  Tom  finally 
dragged  him  out,  bruised,  bleeding  and  gasp- 
ing   for    breath.      Finally,    after    many    nights, 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   223 

Rat  Hell  was  reached.  A  bit  of  rope,  stolen 
from  about  a  box  of  food  sent  a  prisoner, 
had  been  made  into  a  rope  ladder.  It  was  hung 
from  the  edge  of  the  hole.  The  three  crept  cau- 
tiously down  to  Rat  Hell.  This  haven  did 
not  seem  much  like  heaven.  With  squeals  of 
wrath,  the  rats  attacked  the  intruders  and  the 
intruders  fled  up  their  ladder.  They  were  no 
match  for  a  myriad  rats.  Moreover  they  feared 
lest  the  noise  would  bring  into  the  basement  the 
sentry  whose  steps  they  could  hear  on  the  side- 
walk outside.  So  they  fled,  taking  their  rope- 
ladder  with  them,  and  again,  as  ever,  they  re- 
placed the  bricks  and  painted  them  with  the 
friendly  soot. 

The  next  night,  armed  this  time  with  sticks 
of  wood,  they  fought  it  out  with  the  rats  and 
made  them  understand  their  masters  had  come 
to  stay.  Fortunately  the  fight  was  short.  It 
was  noisy  and  the  sentry  came.  But  when  he 
opened  the  door  from  the  street  and  looked  into 
the  darkness  of  the  basement,  the  Union  officers 
were  safely  hid  under  the  straw  and  only  a  few 


224  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

of  the  defeated  rats  still  squealed.     At  last  the 
tunnel  to  the  sewer  could  be  begun.     Colonel 


FIGHTING  THE  RATS 

From  "  Famous  Adventures  of  the  Civil  War.** 
The  Century  Co. 


Rose  had  long  since  decided,  by  forbidden, 
stealthy  glances  from  an  upper  window,  just 
where  it  was  to  be.     The  measurement  made 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   225 

above  was  now  made  below,  the  straw  against 
the  eastern  wall  was  rolled  aside  and  the  old 
knife,  or  what  was  left  of  it  after  its  battle  with 
brick  and  stone,  was  put  to  the  easier  task  of 
digging  dirt. 

Soon  a  new  difficulty  had  to  be  met.  Before 
the  tunnel  was  five  feet  long,  the  air  in  it  be- 
came so  foul  that  candles  went  out  in  it.  So 
would  the  lives  of  the  diggers  have  gone  out  if 
they  had  stayed  in  it  long.  Five  of  the  fifteen 
now  went  down  each  night,  so  that  everybody 
had  two  nights'  rest  out  of  three.  But  the  prog- 
ress made  was  pitifully  slow.  Man  after  man 
was  hauled  by  his  heels  out  of  the  poisonous 
pit,  almost  at  his  last  gasp.  Once,  when  Ham- 
ilton had  been  brought  out  and  was  being 
fanned  back  to  life  by  Colonel  Rose  and  Tom, 
the  boy  whispered: 

"Why  not  fan  air  into  the  tunnel?" 

Nobody   had    thought    of   that   obvious    plan. 

Like  most  great  inventions  it  was  simple — when 

seen.     Thereafter  one  or  two  men  always  sat  at 

the  end  of  the  tunnel  fanning  air  into  it  with 


226  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

their  hats.  But  even  so,  many  a  candle  went 
out  and  many  a  digger  was  pulled  out,  black  in 
the  face  and  almost  dead. 

The  tunnel  sloped  downwards,  of  course,  to 
reach  the  sewer.  It  sloped  too  far  down.  It 
got  below  the  water-level  of  the  canal.  Hami- 
ilton  was  caught  in  it  by  the  rush  of  water  and 
almost  drowned.  So  much  work  had  to  be  done 
over  again.  Then  came  a  crushing  blow.  When 
the  small  sewer  was  finally  reached,  it  proved 
to  be  too  small  for  a  man  to  pass  through  it. 
But  it  had  a  wooden  lining,  which  was  bit  by 
bit  taken  off.  When  this  had  been  done  to 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  main  sewer,  two  men 
were  detailed  to  cut  their  way  through.  The 
next  night  was  set  as  the  time  for  the  escape. 
None  of  the  thirteen  slept  while  the  two  were 
cutting  away  the  final  obstacle.  The  thirteen 
did  not  sleep  the  next  night  either,  for  it  was 
36  hours  before  the  two  came  back  with  their 
heartbreaking  news.  They  had  found  the  last 
few  feet  of  the  sewer-lining  made  of  seasoned 
oak,  three  inches  thick  and  hard  as  stone.    The 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  227 

poor  old  knife  that  had  served  them  so  long  and 
so  well,  could  not  even  scratch  the  toughened 
oak.  Thirty-nine  nights  of  grinding  toil  had 
ended  in  failure. 

Meanwhile  the  thirteen  had  had  to  face  a  new 
problem.  There  were  two  roll-calls  every  day, 
at  9  A.M.  and  4  p.m.  How  were  the  two  absent 
men  to  answer?  At  roll-call  everybody  stood  in 
one  long  line  and  everybody  was  counted.  If 
the  count  were  two  short,  there  would  be  swift 
search  for  the  missing.  And  the  beginning  of 
the  tunnel  was  hidden  only  by  a  few  bundles  of 
straw.  This  was  before  they  knew  the  tunnel 
was  useless,  but  had  they  known  it  they  would 
have  been  scarcely  less  anxious,  for  its  discov- 
ery would  have  made  all  future  attempts  to 
escape  more  dangerous  and  more  doubtful. 
However,  the  roll-call  problem  was  safely 
solved.  The  thirteen  crowded  into  the  upper 
end  of  the  line  and  two  of  them,  as  soon  as  they 
had  answered  to  their  own  names,  dropped  back, 
crouched  down,  crept  behind  the  backs  of  many 
men  to  the  other  end  of  the  line,  slipped  into 


228   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

place,  and  there  answered  for  the  missing  men, 
without  detection.  In  the  afternoon,  they  came 
very  near  being  caught.  Some  of  the  other 
prisoners  thought  this  was  being  done  just  for 
fun,  to  confuse  the  Confederate  clerk  who  called 
the  roll,  and  thought  they  would  take  a  hand  in 
the  fun  too.  There  was  so  much  dodging  and 
double  answering  that  '*  Little  Ross,"  the  good- 
humored  little  clerk,  lost  his  temper  and  ordered 
the  captives  to  stand  in  squads  of  ten  td»  be 
counted.  By  this  time  he  had  called  the  roll 
half  a  dozen  times,  with  results  varying  from 
minus  one  to  plus  fifteen.  When  he  gave  his 
order,  an  order  obedience  to  which  would  have 
certainly  told  the  tale  of  two  absentees,  he  went 
on  to  explain  why  he  gave  it. 

''Now,  gentlemen,  there's  one  thing  sho'; 
there's  eight  or  ten  of  you-uns  yere  that  ain't 
yere." 

This  remarkable  statement  brought  a  shout 
of  laughter  from  the  Confederate  guards.  The 
prisoners  joined  in  it.  "  Little  Ross  "  himself 
caught  the  contagion  and  also  began  to  laugh. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  229 


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230  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

The  dreaded  order  was  laughed  out  of  court 
and  forgotten. 

The  two  men  crept  upstairs  early  the  next 
morning.  The  first  night  daylight  had  caught 
them  at  work,  so  they  had  not  dared  to  return, 
but  had  stayed  and  had  worked  through  the 
36  hours.  They  brought  back  the  handle  of 
the  knife,  with  a  mere  stump  of  a  blade,  and 
the  depressing  news  of  failure.  But  men  who 
are  fit  for  freedom  do  not  cease  to  strive  for  it. 
If  one  road  to  it  is  blocked,  they  seek  another. 
That  very  day,  when  the  fifteen  had  gathered 
together  and  the  two  had  told  their  tale,  a  pal- 
lor of  despair  crept  over  some  of  the  faces,  but 
it  was  dispelled  by  the  flush  of  hope  when 
Colonel  Rose  said:  ''  If  we  can't  go  south,  we'll 
go  east;  we  must  tunnel  to  the  yard  beyond  the 
vacant  lot.     We'll  begin  tonight." 

"  But,"  objected  one  doubting  Thomas,  "  from 
the  yard  we'd  have  to  come  out  on  the  street. 
There's  a  gas-lamp  there — and  a  sentry." 

*'  We  can  put  out  the  lamp  and  if  need  be  the 
sentry,"  Colonel  Rose  answered,  ''  when  we  get 


•    Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  231 

to  them.  The  thing  now  is  to  get  there.  We 
have  fifty-three  feet  of  tunnel  to  dig,  if  my 
figures  are  correct.  That's  a  job  of  a  good  many 
nights.     This  night  will  see  the  job  begun." 

It  was  begun  with  a  broad  chisel  kind  Fate 
had  put  in  their  way  and  with  a  big  wooden 
spittoon,  tied  to  a  rope.  This,  when  filled  with 
earth,  was  pulled  out,  emptied,  and  returned  for 
a  fresh  load.  A  fortnight  afterwards  the  officer 
who  was  digging  that  night  made  a  mistake  in 
levels  and  came  too  near  the  surface,  which 
broke  above  him.  Dismayed,  he  backed  out  and 
reported  the  blunder.  The  hole  was  in  plain 
sight.  Discovery  was  certain  if  it  were  not 
hidden.  The  story  was  but  half  told  when 
Colonel  Rose  began  stripping  off  his  blouse. 

"  Here,  Tom,  take  this.  It's  as  dirty  as  the 
dirt  and  won't  show.  Stuff  it  into  the  hole  so 
it  will  lie  flat  on  the  surface.     Quick!  " 

Tom  wriggled  along  the  tunnel  to  the  hole. 
There  he  smeared  some  more  dirt  on  the  dirty 
blouse,  put  it  into  the  hole  with  cunning  care, 
and  wriggled  back.     That  morning  at  sunrise, 


232  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

when  they  peeked  down  from  their  prison  win- 
dows into  the  eastern  lot,  even  their  straining 
eyes  could  scarcely  see  the  tiny  bit  of  blouse  that 
showed.  No  casual  glance  would  detect  it.  Of 
that  they  were  sure. 

Every  few  days  new  prisoners  were  thrust 
into  Libby.  Whenever  this  happened  it  was  the 
custom  that  on  the  first  evening  they  should 
tell  whatever  news  they  could  of  the  outside 
world  and  of  their  own  capture  to  the  whole 
prison  community.  One  morning  the  keeper 
of  Libby  receipted  for  another  captured  Yankee 
and  soon  Captain  Jacob  Johnson  appeared  in  the 
grimy  upper  rooms.  He  responded  very  cor- 
dially, rather  too  cordially,  to  the  greetings  he 
received.  It  soon  became  understood  that  he 
was  only  a  guerilla  captain  from  Tennessee. 
Now  neither  side  was  overproud  of  the  guerillas 
who  infested  the  borderland,  who  sometimes 
called  themselves  Unionists  and  sometimes  Con- 
federates, and  who  did  more  stealing  than  fight- 
ing.    So  a  rather  cold  shoulder  was  turned  to 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  233 

the  new  captive,  though  the  community's  judg- 
ment upon  him  was  deferred  until  after  he 
should  have  been  heard  that  evening.  He 
seemed  to  try  to  warm  the  cold  shoulder  by  a 
Certain  greasy  sidling  to  and  fro  and  by  attempts 
at  too  familiar  conversation.  He  began  to  talk 
to  Colonel  Rose,  who  soon  shook  him  off,  and 
to  sundry  other  persons,  among  whom  was 
Tom.  The  boy  was  not  mature  enough  in  the 
ways  of  the  world  to  get  rid  of  him,  Johnson 
spent  some  hours  with  him  and  bored  him  to 
distraction.  There  was  a  mean  uneasiness  about 
him  that  repelled  Tom.  His  face,  an  undeniably 
Yankee  face,  awoke  some  unpleasant  memory, 
from  time  to  time,  but  the  boy  could  not  place 
him  and  finally  decided  that  this  was  merely  a 
fancy,  not  a  fact.  None  the  less  the  man  him- 
self was  an  unpleasant  fact.  He  peered  about 
and  sidled  about  in  a  way  that  might  be  due 
only  to  Yankee  curiosity,  but  Tom  didn't  like 
it.  He  disliked  Johnson  more  and  more  as  the 
newcomer  kept  returning  to  him  and  growing 
more    confidential.      His    talk    was    on    various 


234  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

natural  enough  themes,  but  it  kept  veering  back 
to  the  chances  of  escape. 

*'  I  don't  mean  to  stay  in  this  hole  long," 
Johnson  whispered.  *'  Pretty  mean-spirited  in 
all  these  fellows  to  just  hang  around  here,  with- 
out even  trying  to  make  a  getaway.  What  d'ye 
say  'bout  our  trying  it  on,  son?" 

The  familiar  address  increased  the  boy's  dis- 
like of  the  man,  but  he  was  too  young  to  realize 
that  he  was  being  "  sounded  "  by  a  spy.  He 
was  old  enough,  however,  to  know  how  to  keep 
his  mouth  shut  about  the  pending  plan  for  an 
escape.  He  thought  Johnson  got  nothing  out 
of  him,  but  in  the  many  half-confidential  talks 
the  unpleasant  Yankee  forced  upon  him,  per- 
haps he  had  revealed  something  after  all.  Per- 
haps, however,  the  newcomer  got  such  informa- 
tion as  he  did  from  other  men  in  the  secret. 
Certainly  he  got  somewhere  an  inkling  of  the 
plan  of  escape. 

That  evening,  when  he  stood  in  a  circle  of  sit- 
ting men  to  tell  his  story, — a  simple  tale  of 
Northern  birth,  of  a  Southern  home,  of  belief 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   235 

in  the  Union,  of  raising  a  guerilla  company  to 
fight  for  it,  of  capture  in  a  raid  on  a  Confed- 
erate supply-depot, — the  unpleasant  memory 
which  had  been  troubling  Tom  came  back  and 
hammered  at  his  head  until  suddenly,  as  if  a 
flashlight  had  been  turned  on  the  scene,  he  saw 
himself  sprawling  on  the  hearth  of  Uncle 
Mose's  slave-cabin,  with  this  man's  hand  clutch- 
ing his  ankle.  He  was  sitting  on  the  floor  beside 
Colonel  Rose.  He  leant  against  him  and  whis- 
pered: 

"  That  man  didn't  come  from  Tennessee.  He 
was  overseer  on  a  plantation  in  Alabama.  He 
'most  captured  me  once.     I  b'lieve  he's  a  spy." 

Johnson  caught  the  gleam  of  Colonel  Rose's 
eye  fixed  upon  him.  He  had  seen  Tom  whisper 
to  him.  He  faltered,  stopped  speaking,  and  sat 
down.  Rose  walked  across  the  circle  and  sat 
beside  him.  He  had  snapped  his  fingers  as  he 
walked  and  half  a  dozen  men  had  answered  the 
signal  and  were  now  close  at  hand. 

"  What  did  you  do  before  you  turned 
guerilla?"  asked  Colonel  Rose. 


236  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

''  I  don't  know  that  that's  any  of  your  darned 
business,"  said  Johnson. 

"  Answer  me." 

The  stronger  man  dominated  the  weaker. 
The  spy  sulkily  said : 

**  I  kept  a  general  shop  in  Jonesboro',  Ten- 


nessee." 


*' Ever  live  anywhere  else  in  the  South?" 

"  No." 

"Ever  do  anything  else  in  the  South?" 

"  No,  sirree.  What's  the  good  of  asking  such 
questions?  " 

The  Colonel  rose  to  his  feet  and  said  aloud: 

''  Major  Hamilton." 

"  Here,  sir,"  answered  the  Major. 

"  Didn't  you  live  in  Jonesboro',  Tennessee,  be- 
fore the  war?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  long?" 

"  Seven  years." 

"  Who  kept  the  general  store  there?  " 

"  Hezekiah  Butterworth,  from  Maine." 

"  Did  you  know  him?  " 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  237 

"  Rather.  We  were  chums.  He  and  I  left 
Jonesboro'  together  to  join  the  army." 

''Is  this  man  he?" 

Rose  pointed  to  where  Jake  Johnson  sat  at  his 
feet,  cowering,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 
Other  hands  not  too  gently  snatched  Jake's 
hands  from  his  face.     Hamilton  looked  at  him. 

"  He's  no  more  Hezekiah  Butterworth  than 
he's  General  Grant." 

By  this  time  the  whole  prison  community  was 
crowded  about  Colonel  Rose.  The  latter  called 
again : 

"  Mr.  Strong." 

"  Here,  sir,"  Tom's  voice  piped  up. 

*' Do  you  know  this  man?" 

"  Yes,  sir."  Tom  told  the  story  of  Jake  John- 
son on  the  Izzard  plantation. 

There  was  an  ominous  low  growl  from  the 
audience.  Yankee  overseers  of  Southern  plan- 
tations were  not  exactly  popular  in  that  crowd 
of  Northern  officers.  And  evidently  this  par- 
ticular overseer  had  been  lying.  But  Colonel 
Rose  lifted  his  hand  and  said: 


238   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  Silence.  No  violence.  What  we  do  will  be 
done  decently  and  in  order."  After  this  impres- 
sive speech,  he  suddenly  yelled :  "  Ah,  you 
w^ould,  would  you?"  and  choked  Johnson  w^ith 
every  pound  of  strength  he  could  put  into  the 
process.  He  had  just  seen  him  slip  a  bit  of 
paper  into  his  mouth  and  he  meant  to  know 
what  that  paper  was.  It  was  plucked  out  of  the 
spy's  throat  as  he  gasped  for  air.  Upon  it  the 
spy's  pencil  had  written : 

"  Plot  to  escape.  Lieutenant  Strong  knows 
about  it.     Think  Colonel  Rose  heads  it." 

It  was  to  have  been  Jake  Johnson's  first  report 
in  his  new  business  of  being  a  spy.  It  put  an 
end  to  all  business  on  his  part  forever.  Gagged 
and  tied,  he  was  pushed  across  the  big  room, 
while  Tom  watched  uncomprehendingly,  won- 
dering what  w^as  to  be  done  with  the  writhing 
man.  Suddenly  he  understood,  for  he  saw  it 
done.  Johnson  w^as  pushed  into  a  window. 
Two  kneeling  men  held  his  legs  and  another, 
standing  beside  him  but  screened  by  the  wall, 
pushed  him  in  front  of  the  window.     The  Con- 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   239 

federate  sentry  below  obeyed  his  orders.  There 
was  no  challenge,  no  warning.  He  aimed  and 
fired  at  the  prisoner  who  was  breaking  the  laws 
of  the  prison  by  looking  out  of  the  window. 
What  had  been  Jake  Johnson,  Yankee,  negro- 
overseer,  Confederate  conscript,  volunteer  spy, 
fell  in  a  dead  heap  to  the  floor  of  Libby.  Gag 
and  bonds  were  quickly  removed,  so  there  was 
nothing  to  tell  the  Confederates  the  real  cause 
of  the  man's  death  when  they  came  to  remove 
the  body.  They  had  unwittingly  executed  their 
own  spy. 

It  was  right  that  the  man  should  die,  but  the 
shock  of  seeing  him  done  to  death  was  too  much 
for  Tom.  Weakened  by  the  fatigues  and  hard- 
ship of  the  long  captivity  during  which  he  had 
been  carried  from  Ohio  to  Virginia  and  worn 
out  by  the  sufferings  of  life  in  Libby  and  by  the 
toil  of  the  tunnel,  the  boy  collapsed  when  Jake 
Johnson  did  and  for  a  few  moments  seemed  as 
dead  as  the  man  was.  He  was  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital-room, but  the  hospital  in  Libby  was  usually 


240  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

only  the  anteroom  of  the  grave-yard  at  Libby. 
One  of  the  scarcest  things  in  the  Confederacy, 
the  home  of  scarcity,  was  a  good  doctor.  The 
armies  in  the  field  needed  far  more  doctors  than 
there  were  in  the  whole  South,  at  the  outbreak 
of  the  war.  Medical  schools  were  quickly 
created,  but  the  demand  for  doctors  so  far  out- 
ran the  supply  that  by  this  time  ignorant  coun- 
try lads  were  being  rushed  through  the  schools, 
with  reckless  haste,  so  that  they  were  graduated 
when  they  knew  but  little  more  than  when  they 
began.  A  so-called  surgeon  was  handling  his 
scalpel  six  months  after  he  had  been  handling  a 
plow.  Some  of  them  barely  knew  how  to  read 
and  write.  It  was  inevitable  that  the  prison  hos- 
pitals should  be  manned  by  the  poorest  of  the 
poor  among  the  graduates  of  these  wretched 
schools.  A  fortunate  chance,  fortunate  that  is 
for  Tom,  gave  him,  however,  care  that  was  both 
skilful  and  tender. 

A  few  hours  after  the  righteous  execution  of 
Jake  Johnson  there  had  been  thrust  into  Libby 
a  fresh  group  of  prisoners,  captured  but  forty- 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  241 

eight  hours  before.  Among  them  towered  a 
jovial,  bearded  giant,  an  army  surgeon.  Major 
Hans  Rolf.  Libby  was  ringing  of  course  with 
talk  of  what  had  happened  there  that  day.  The 
new  prisoners  quickly  heard  of  Johnson  and  of 
Tom  Strong.  Within  an  hour,  Hans  Rolf  had 
given  his  parole  not  to  try  to  escape  and  had 
been  allowed  to  station  himself  beside  Tom's 
bed.  Through  that  night  and  through  the  next 
day,  he  fought  Tom's  battle  for  him,  doing  all 
that  man  could  do.  When  the  boy  struggled  out 
of  his  delirium  and  saw  Rolf's  kind  eyes  beam- 
ing upon  him,  his  first  thought  was  that  he  was 
still  in  the  clutches  of  Wilkes  Booth  in  the  rail- 
road car.  His  right  hand  plucked  feebly  at  his 
left  side,  where  he  had  then  carried  the  dis- 
patches Booth  sought.  Hans  Rolf  saw  and 
understood  the  movement. 

"  It's  all  right,  Tom,"  he  said.  "  Everything's 
all  right.     Go  to  sleep." 

And  Tom,  still  a  bit  stupefied,  thought  every- 
thing was  all  right  and  that  he  was  home  in  New 
York,  with  Rolf  somehow  or  other  there  too.    A 


242   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

gracious  and  beautiful  Richmond  woman,  who 
gave  her  days  to  caring  for  her  country's 
enemies,  bent  over  him  with  a  smile.  The  boy's 
eyes  gleamed  with  a  mistaken  belief. 

*' Oh,  Mother!"  gasped  Tom.  He  smiled 
back  and  sank  gently  into  a  profound  sleep,  from 
which  he  awoke  to  life  and  health.  Again  a 
Hans  Rolf  had  saved  a  Tom  Strong's  life. 

Night  after  night  passed,  one  night  of  work 
by  each  man  followed  by  two  of  such  rest  as 
lying  spoon  fashion  upon  a  hard  floor  allowed. 
On  the  seventeenth  night  of  the  new  tunnel 
work.  Colonel  Rose  was  digging  away  in  it.  It 
was  over  fifty  feet  long.  His  candle  flickered 
and  went  out.  The  foul  air  closed  in  upon  him. 
Hats  were  fanning  to  and  fro,  back  in  Rat 
Hell,  fifty  feet  away,  but  the  fresh  air  did  not 
reach  him.  He  felt  himself  suffocating.  With 
one  last  effort  he  thrust  his  strong  fists  upward 
and  broke  through  the  surface.  Soon  revived 
by  the  rush  of  fresh  air  into  the  tunnel,  he 
dragged  himself  out  and  found  himself  in   the 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  243 

yard  that  had  been  their  aim.  The  tunnel  had 
reached  its  goal.  He  climbed  out  and  studied 
the  situation.  A  high  fence  screened  the  yard 
from  Libby.  A  shed  with  an  easily  opened  door 
screened  it  from  the  street.  At  three  a.m.,  Feb- 
ruary 6,  1864,  Colonel  Rose  returned  to  prison. 

That  morning  he  told  his  news.  Most  of  the 
men  wanted  to  try  for  freedom  the  next  night, 
but  there  was  much  to  do  to  erase  all  traces  of 
their  work,  so  that,  if  the  tunnel  were  not  forth- 
with discovered  after  their  flight,  it  could  be 
used  later  by  other  fugitives.  With  a  rare  un- 
selfishness, they  waited  for  sixty  hours.  Mean- 
while each  of  the  fifteen  had  been  authorized  to 
tell  one  other  man,  so  that  thirty  in  all  could 
make  their  escape  together.  Colonel  Rose  felt 
that  this  was  the  limit.  A  general  prison-delivery 
would,  he  believed,  result  in  a  general  recapture. 
Such  a  secret,  however,  was  too  mighty  to  keep. 
A  whisper  of  it  spread  through  the  prison. 

When  Hans  Rolf  had  saved  Tom's  life,  he 
had  been  at  once  taken  into  the  inner  councils 
of  the  tunnel  group.     He  had  not  expressed  as 


244  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

much  joy  in  the  plan  as  Tom  had  expected.  The 
reason  of  this  was  now  revealed.  He  declined 
to  go. 

"  You  see,"  he  explained  to  Colonel  Rose  and 
Tom,  "  I  gave  my  parole  not  to  try  to  escape 
when  Tom  here  was  sick.  I  had  to  do  so  in 
order  to  be  allowed  to  take  care  of  him.  I 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  ask  to  be  relieved  from 
it  because  if  I  had  the  Confeds.  might  have  sus- 
pected some  plan  to  escape  was  on  hand.  And 
they  seem  to  have  forgotten  all  about  it,  for  they 
haven't  cancelled  it.  So  you  see  I'm  bound  in 
honor  not  to  go.  Don't  bother,  Tom."  The 
boy's  face  showed  the  agony  he  felt  that  Hans 
Rolf's  kindness  to  him  should  now  bar  Hans 
Rolf's  way  to  freedom.  ''  Don't  bother.  'Twon't 
be  long  before  I'll  be  exchanged.  And  p'raps  I 
can  save  some  lives  here  by  staying.  Don't 
bother.  It's  all  right.  I  rather  like  this  board- 
ing-house." 

The  giant's  great  laugh  rang  out.  The 
heartiness  of  it  amazed  the  weary  men  scattered 
about  the  room.     It  brought  smiles  to  lips  that 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  245 

had  not  smiled  for  many  a  day.  Laughter  that 
comes  from  a  clean  heart  does  good  to  all  who 
hear  it. 

It  was  clear  that  Rolf  could  not  go.  He  was 
an  officer  and  a  gentleman.  Honor  forbade  it. 
Sadly,  Tom  left  him. 

On  Tuesday  evening,  February  9,  1864,  when 
the  chosen  thirty  had  crawled  down  the  inverted 
"  S "  and  the  rope-ladder  to  Rat  Hell,  CoL 
H.  C.  Hobart,  who  knew  the  secret,  but  had  gal- 
lantly offered  to  stay  behind,  so  that  he  could 
replace  the  tell-tale  bricks  in  the  fireplace,  re- 
placed them.  But  before  he  could  get  upstairs, 
some  hundreds  of  men  had  come  down.  The 
secret  was  a  secret  no  longer.  There  was  a 
fierce  struggle  to  get  to  the  fireplace,  a  struggle 
all  the  fiercer  because  it  had  to  be  made  in  grim 
silence,  for  there  was  a  sentry  but  a  few  feet 
away,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  in  the  hos- 
pital. The  bricks  were  taken  out  again.  In  all, 
one  hundred  and  nine  Union  officers  got  through 
the  hole.  Then,  warned  by  approaching  day- 
light, the  less  fortunate  in  the  fight  for  freedom 


246  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

put  back  the  bricks  and  crept  stealthily  upstairs, 
resolved  to  try  their  luck  the  next  night,  if  the 
tunnel  were  not  before  that  discovered. 

Tom  had  wormed  his  way  through  the  in- 
verted ''  S "  among  the  first  fifteen.  On  the 
rope  ladder  he  lost  his  hold  and  fell  in  a  heap 
upon  the  floor  of  Rat  Hell.  The  huge  rodents 
swarmed  upon  him,  squealing  and  biting.  He 
almost  shrieked  with  the  horror  of  it,  but  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  threw  ofif  his  tormentors, 
and  ran  across  the  room  to  the  opening  of  the 
tunnel.  His  ragged  clothes  were  still  more 
ragged  and  his  face  and  hands  were  bleeding 
from  rat-bites,  but  he  cared  nothing  for  all  this. 
Was  he  not  on  his  way  to  freedom?  On  his  way, 
yes;  but  the  way  was  a  long  one.  He  might 
never  reach  the  end.  When  he  had  pushed  and 
pulled  himself  through  the  tunnel;  when  he  had 
come  out  into  the  yard  and  gone  through  the 
shed;  and  when,  at  the  moment  the  sentry  in 
the  canal  street  was  at  the  further  end  of  his 
beat,  he  had  slipped  out  of  the  doorway  and 
turned  in  the  opposite  direction, — when  all  this 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   247 

had  happened,  he  was  out  of  prison,  to  be  sure, 
but  he  was  in  the  heart  of  the  enemy's  country, 
with  all  the  risks  of  recapture  or  of  death  still  to 
be  run.  ^ 

The  men  had  all  been  cautioned  to  stroll  away 
in  a  leisurely  fashion,  on  no  account  to  run  or 
even  to  walk  fast,  and  not  to  try  to  get  away 
in  groups  of  more  than  two  or  three.  It  was 
hard  to  walk  slowly  to  the  next  corner.  The 
boy  made  himself  do  so,  however.  Half  a  block 
ahead  of  him  on  the  side  street,  he  saw  a  couple 
of  men  walking  with  a  somewhat  faster  stride. 
He  hurried  ahead  to  join  them.  A  Confederate 
patrol  turned  the  corner  of  Carey  Street.  He 
heard  the  two  men  challenged  and  he  heard  the 
little  scuffle  as  they  were  seized.  Their  brief 
moment  of  freedom  had  passed.  He  stepped  to 
one  side  of  the  wooden  sidewalk  and  crawled 
under  it.  There  was  just  space  enough  for  him 
to  lie  at  full  length.  Hurrying  feet,  the  feet  of 
men  hunting  other  men,  trampled  an  inch  above 
his  nose.  His  heart  beat  so  that  he  thought  it 
must  be  heard.     The  patrol  reached  the  street 


248  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

along  the  canal  and  peered  into  the  darkness 
there,  a  darkness  feebly  fought  by  one  flickering 
gas-lamp.  Fortunately,  nobody  came  out  of  the 
shed  just  then.  The  sentry  happened  to  be  com- 
ing towards  it  and  the  men  inside  were  waiting 
for  him  to  turn.  The  patrol  had  no  thought  of 
a  general  jail-delivery.  It  turned  back  with  its 
two  prisoners,  tramped  back  over  Tom's  head 
to  Carey  Street,  and  took  its  captives  to  the 
prison.  The  boy  crawled  out  from  under  the 
sidewalk  as  the  next  batch  of  fugitives,  three  of 
them,  reached  the  corner.  He  ran  down  to 
them  and  warned  them  of  the  Carey  Street 
patrol.  The  three  men  turned  with  him  and 
walked  along  the  canal.  It  was  just  after  mid- 
night. Not  a  soul  was  stirring.  Not  a  light 
showed.  As  they  walked  unquestioned,  their 
spirits  rose.     How  fine  to  be  free. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Tom  Hides  in  a  River  Bank— Eats  Raw  Fish — 
Jim  Grayson  Aids  Him — Down  the  James 
River  on  a  Tree — Passing  the  Patrol  Boats 
— Cannonaded — The  End  of  the  Voyage. 

np^OM  had  made  up  his  mind  how  he  would 
try  to  reach  the  Union  Hues.  As  he  had 
escaped  before  from  the  locomotive-foray  by 
pushing  boldly  into  the  enemy's  country,  so 
he  would  do  now.  He  would  try  his  luck  in 
following  the  James  River  to  the  sea,  for  of? 
the  river's  mouth  he  knew  there  lay  a  squad- 
ron of  Northern  ships,  blockading  Hampton 
Roads.  The  ''  Merrimac's  "  attempt  of  March, 
1862,  had  never  been  repeated.  Our  flag  was 
still  there,  in  these  February  days  of  1864,  and 
Tom  knew  it.  He  had  resolved  to  seek  it  there. 
He  explained  his  plan  to  his  three  comrades. 
They  would  steal  a  boat,  row  or  drift  down  the 
James  by  night,  hide  and  sleep  by  day,  forage 

249 


250   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

for  food  upon  the  rich  plantations,  many  of 
them  the  historic  homes  of  Virginia,  that  bor- 
dered the  broad  river,  and  finally  float  to  free- 
dom where  our  war-ships  lay.  But  the  three 
men  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  By  land 
the  Union  lines  were  much  nearer.  They  meant 
to  stick  to  the  land.  They  asked  the  boy  to  go 
with  them,  but  he  stuck  to  his  plan.  So,  with 
hearty  handshakes  and  a  whispered  "  good 
luck!"  he  left  them,  went  over  a  canal-bridge, 
and  found  himself  upon  the  bank  of  the  river. 
He  was  again  alone. 

Of  his  three  temporary  companions,  one 
finally  reached  our  lines,  one  was  shot  within  a 
few  hundred  yards  of  his  goal,  and  one  was  re- 
captured. Of  the  109  who  escaped  from  Libby, 
48  were  caught  and  thrust  back  into  prison. 

Tom  walked  along  the  river  bank,  prying  in 
the  welcome  darkness  for  a  boat.  It  would  not 
have  been  difficult  to  steal  it,  if  he  could  have 
found  it.  But  at  this  point  the  James  is  wide  and 
shallow  and  full  of  miniature  rapids.  It  was 
utterly  bare  of  boats.     The  boy's  search  could 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   251 

not  be  carried  on  after  dawn.  He  spent  that 
day  hidden  in  a  clump  of  willows  by  the  water- 
side. The  excitement  of  the  night  had  kept 
him  up.  Now  the  reaction  from  it  left  him  limp 
and  miserable  and  hungry  as  he  never  remem- 
bered being  hungry  before.  It  was  hard  work 
to  ''  grin  and  bear  it,"  but  at  least  he  tried  to 
grin  and  he  reminded  himself  a  thousand  times 
through  that  long,  long  day  that  he  was  much 
better  off  than  if  he  were  still  a  prisoner  in 
Libby. 

That  night  he  followed  the  bank  until  he  was 
below  the  city,  still  without  finding  a  boat. 
There  had  been  plenty  of  boats  along  this  part 
of  the  river  the  morning  before,  but  as  soon  as 
the  escape  from  Libby  had  been  discovered,  all 
boats  had  been  seized  by  the  military  authori- 
ties, to  prevent  their  being  used  by  the  fugitives. 
They  had  been  taken  to  a  point  below  the  town. 
As  Tom  wormed  himself  cautiously  near  this 
point,  very  cautiously,  for  he  heard  voices  upon 
the  bank  above  his  head,  and  also  the  crackle 
of  a  camp-fire,  he  saw  in  the  gray  dawn  a  flotilla 


252   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

of  boats  just  below  him.  At  first  sight,  his  heart 
leaped  into  his  mouth  with  joy.  At  the  second 
sight,  it  sank  down  into  his  boots.  For  above 
the  boats  he  saw  a  big  Confederate  camp  and 
beyond  them  he  saw  a  half-dozen  small  craft, 
negroes  at  the  oars  and  armed  men  at  bow  and 
stern,  patrolling  the  river.  Hope  left  him.  He 
crawled  into  a  hiding-place  in  the  bank.  He  was 
so  hungry  that  he  cried.  But  not  for  long. 
Stout  hearts  do  not  yield  to  such  weakness  long. 
If  he  could  not  escape  in  a  boat  fashioned  by 
man's  hands,  why  not  in  one  fashioned  by  God? 
The  early  spring  freshets  of  the  James  were 
making  the  river  higher  every  hour.  He  saw  in 
cautious  peeps  from  the  hole  where  he  had  hid- 
den great  trees  from  far-off  forests,  uprooted 
there  by  the  high  water,  come  plunging  down 
mid-channel  like  battering  rams.  He  noted  that 
the  patrol-boats  gave  these  dangerous  monsters 
a  wide  berth.  If  a  trunk  of  a  tree  were  to  ram 
them  or  if  the  far-flung  branches  were  to  strike 
them,  their  next  patrol  would  be  at  the  bottom 
of   the   river.      On   a   sandbank   not   a   hundred 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   253 

yards  from  the  boy's  lair  a  big  oak  had  stranded. 
It  lay  quite  still  now,  but  it  evidently  would  not 
do  so  for  many  hours,  for  the  rising  water 
lapped  higher  and  higher  against  it.  Tom 
made  up  his  mind  that  that  tree  should  be  his 
boat — if  only  it  were  still  there  when  it  was  dark 
enough  for  him  to  swim  out  to  it.  Through  the 
daylight  hours  he  watchcvl  it  with  lynx  eyes, 
fearing  lest  it  were  swept  along  towards  the  sea 
before  he  could  shelter  himself  in  it.  And 
through  these  daylight  hours  he  grew  ever  more 
faint  with  hunger,  until  he  told  himself  that  he 
must  have  food,  at  any  risk,  at  any  cost.  With- 
out the  strength  it  would  give,  he  felt  he  could 
not  possibly  swim  even  the  hundred  yards  that 
lay  between  him  and  the  now  tossing  tree. 
There  is  truth  in  the  line: 

"  Fate  cannot  harm  me ;  I  have  dined  today." 

It  is  too  much  to  do  to  face  Fate  on  an  empty 
stomach.  Napoleon  said  that  an  army  traveled 
on  its  belly.  Men  must  have  food  if  they  are  to 
march  and  fight. 


254  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

A  Confederate  soldier  sauntered  along  the 
shore  and  stopped  just  in  front  of  the  boy's 
hiding-place.  He  had  a  rude  fish-pole.  Either 
he  knew  how  to  fish,  or  the  James  River  fish 
were  very  hungry.  A  string  of  a  dozen  hung 
from  his  shoulder.  The  sight  of  them  was  too 
much  for  Tom  to  stand.  A  raw  fish  seemed  to 
him  the  most  toothsome  morsel  in  the  world. 
He  knew  he  was  courting  certain  capture,  but 
he  was  starving.  He  would  pretend  to  be  a 
Confederate  himself.  He  spoke  to  the  soldier, 
not  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  heart,  but  out  of 
the  emptiness  of  his  stomach. 

"  I'm  hungry,"  he  said,  "give  a  fellow  a  fish, 
will  you?  " 

The  soldier  turned  with  a  start.  He  was  a 
tall,  gaunt  man,  an  East  Tennessee  moun- 
taineer, who  had  started  to  join  the  Union  army 
when  a  Confederate  conscript-ofKicer  seized  him 
and  sent  him  South,  under  guard,  to  serve  the 
cause  he  had  meant  to  fight  against.  East  Ten- 
nessee was,  as  a  rule,  loyal  to  the  Union.  The 
men  from   there  who  were  found  in   the   Con- 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   255 

federate  army  were  like  the  poor  peons  who  are 
supposed  to  ''volunteer"  in  the  Mexican  army. 
''  I  send  you  fifty  volunteers,"  wrote  a  Mexican 
mayor  to  a  Mexican  general,  ''  please  return  me 
the  ropes."  Jim  Grayson  had  not  been  tied  up 
with  a  rope,  but  he  had  had  a  bayonet  behind 
him,  when  he  was  put  into  the  Confederate 
ranks.  He  was  a  man  of  intelligence  and  of 
rather  more  education  than  most  of  his  fellow 
mountaineers.  Many  of  them  could  not  even 
read  and  write.  Grayson  had  learned  both  at  a 
*'  deestrik  skule  "  and  had  actually  had  a  year, 
a  precious  year,  at  a  ''  high  skule."  The  last 
thing  he  had  read  before  starting  to  fish  that 
morning  had  been  the  printed  handbills  that 
had  been  flung  broadcast  by  the  Confederate 
authorities,  announcing  the  escape  of  io8  men 
and  one  boy  from  Libby  Prison  and  offering  re- 
wards for  their  recapture.  And  the  first  thing 
he  thought  as  he  saw  Tom  in  his  hole  in  the 
bank  was  that  he  was  probably  the  boy  of  the 
handbills.  He  meant  to  give  the  fellow  a  fish, 
of  course,  but  if  he  found  the  fellow  was  that 


256   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

boy  he  also  meant  to  do  what  he  could  to  help 
him  go  where  he  himself  wanted  to  go,  to  the 
Union  lines. 

''  Sholy,  I'll  give  you  a  fish,"  he  said.  "  You 
can  have  all  you  want.  I'll  light  a  fire  and  cook 
some  for  you." 

"  I  can't  wait,"  gasped  Tom,  wolf-hunger  in 
his  gleaming  eyes.     *'  I'm  starving." 

He  tried  to  reach  out  for  the  fish  and  collapsed 
in  utter  weakness.  With  food  at  last  within  his 
grasp,  he  was  too  far  gone  to  take  it.  Jim 
Grayson  had  been  very  hungry  more  than  once 
in  his  thirty  years  of  hard  life.  He  saw  that 
Tom  was  telling  the  truth. 

"  Hush,"  he  whispered,  for  he  had  caught 
sight  of  some  fellow  soldiers  on  the  bank,  not  a 
hundred  feet  away.  '*  Hush,  sumbuddy's  comin'. 
You  mus'  take  little  pieces  first.  I'll  cut  one 
up  for  you." 

He  was  drawing  out  his  knife  from  a  deep 
pocket  when  the  soldiers  stopped  on  the  bank 
above  their  heads  and  shouted  down,  asking  him 
to  give  them  some  fish  too. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   257 

"  Sholy,"    laughed    Jim.      *'  Here's    some    for 


vou-uns." 


He  tossed  half  a  dozen  up  to  them  and  then 
sat  down  at  the  mouth  of  the  hole  that  shel- 
tered Tom,  thinking  to  hide  him  in  case  the 
others  came  down  the  bank.  His  back  was  to- 
wards the  boy.  What  was  left  of  his  catch  hung 
within  two  inches  of  Tom's  nose.  That  was 
Tom's  chance.  He  tore  off  a  couple  of  little  fish 
and  tore  them  to  bits  with  his  teeth.  His  first 
sensation  was  one  of  deathly  sickness;  his  next 
one  of  returning  strength.  Grayson  twitched 
the  remaining  fish  into  his  lap.  He  knew  the 
boy  had  already  had  too  much  food,  for  a  first 
meal.  Meanwhile  he  was  chatting  cheerily  with 
his  fellow  soldiers,  who  fortunately  did  not  come 
down  the  bank  and  soon  moved  off,  leaving  Jim 
and  Tom  alone.  Now  was  the  time  for  explana- 
tions. 

''  Don't  be  afeard,"  said  Jim,  with  a  kindly 
smile.  ''  I  'low  you  be  Tom  Strong,  bean't  you? 
I  guess  you  was  in  Libby  day  afore  yisterday. 
I  ain't  goin'  to  give  you  up.     I'm  Union,  I  be, 


258   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

ef  I  do  wear  Secesh  gray.  How  kin  I  help 
you?" 

The  sense  of  safety,  safety  at  least  for  the 
moment,  was  too  much  for  Tom.  He  could  not 
speak. 

"  Thar,  thar,"  Jim  went  on,  ''  it's  all  right. 
Jes'  tell  me  what  I  can  do.  I'll  bring  you  eatins 
soon  ez  night  comes,  but  what'll  you  do  then?  " 

Tom  told  him  what  he  hoped  to  do  then.  It 
was  a  wild  scheme  to  float  down  nearly  two  hun- 
dred miles  of  river  through  a  hostile  country, 
but  yet  it  ofifered  a  chance  of  success.  And  if 
there  was  a  chance  of  success  for  the  boy,  why 
not  for  the  man? 

"  Ef  so  he's  ez  you'se  sot  on  it,"  Jim  said,  at 
the  end  of  the  talk,  "  I  vum  I'll  run  the  resk 
with  you.  You  ain't  no  ways  fit  to  start  ofi 
alone.  Ef  you  have  to  hist  that  thar  tree  into 
the  James  River,  you  cudn't  a-do  it.  I  kin.  'N 
ef  you  wuz  all  alonst,  you  mout  fall  off'n  be 
drownded.  We-uns'll  go  together.  'N  then  I'll 
hev  a  chanst  to  fight  fer  the  old  Union." 

Tom  was  only  too  glad  of  the  promised  com- 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   259 

pany.  It  was  arranged  that  Jim  was  to  come  to 
him  as  soon  as  possible  after  nightfall,  with 
whatever  provisions  he  could  lay  his  hands 
upon,  and  that  then  they  were  to  get  away  on 
the  queer  craft  Providence  seemed  to  have  pre- 
pared for  them,  provided  only  that  Providence 
did  not  send  the  big  tree  swirling  southward  to 
the  sea  before  they  could  reach  it.  The  river 
was  now  considerably  higher.  It  was  tugging 
hard  at  its  prey.  Sometimes  the  tree  shook  with 
the  impact  of  the  rushing  waves  as  if  it  had  de- 
cided to  let  go  the  sandbank  forthwith.  If  it 
did  go  before  nightfall,  they  must  try  to  find 
another.  There  were  always  others  in  sight, 
but  they  were  far  away  in  mid-channel,  floating 
swiftly  seaward.  How  could  one  of  these  be 
reached,  if  their  fellow  on  the  sandbank  joined 
them?  There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  however, 
except  to  wait.  Tom's  waiting  was  solaced  by 
the  eating  of  the  rest  of  the  fish.  Man  and  boy 
agreed  that  the  man  must  loiter  there  no  longer. 
Making  a  fire  would  delay  him  beyond  roll-call. 
So  Jim  went  and  Tom  again  ate  raw  fish,  trying 


26o  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

to  do  so  slowly,  but  not  making  a  great  success 
of  that.     He  felt  as  if  he  could  eat  a  whale. 

Darkness  came  only  a  few  minutes  before  Jim 
Grayson  did.  He  brought  with  him  a  bundle  of 
food,  upon  part  of  which  Tom  forthwith  supped. 
He  also  brought  his  gun.  "  I'm  a  deserter  now, 
you  see,"  he  explained  to  the  boy,  "  and  I'll  be 
shot  ef  so  be  I'm  caught.  But  ef  I  be  caught, 
I'll  shoot  some  o'  they-uns  fust." 

They  could  dimly  see  the  outlines  of  the  big 
tree,  now  tossing  in  the  waves  that  broke  above 
the  submerged  sandbank,  as  if  it  were  struggling 
to  be  free.  They  swam  out  to  it,  Jim  strongly, 
Tom  weakly.  They  reached  it  none  too  soon. 
Ten  minutes  later  it  would  have  started  of  its 
own  accord.  Jim's  task  in  "  histing "  it  was 
easy.  They  were  afloat  at  once.  The  top  of  the 
tree,  a  mass  of  bare  branches,  for  the  tiny  tender 
leaves  of  the  early  Southern  spring  had  been 
swept  away  by  the  water,  formed  the  bow  of 
their  craft.  They  both  perched  far  back,  leaning 
against  the  tangled  roots.  Jim  gave  a  final  push 
with  one  dangling  foot  and  they  were  off.    That 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  261 

was  all  Tom  knew  for  some  time.  He  had  fallen 
asleep  as  soon  as  he  had  snuggled  securely  into 
his  place.  He  did  not  know  it  when  they  swept 
through  the  cordon  of  patrol-boats  below,  which 
hastened  to  give  room  to  the  vast  battering  ram. 
He  did  not  even  know  that  Jim's  arm  held  him 
in  place  as  the  tree  lurched  and  wobbled  on  its 
downward  road.  A  few  hours  afterwards,  he 
awoke,  refreshed  and  hopeful,  a  new  man,  or 
rather  a  new  boy.  The  night  was  clear.  The 
outlines  of  both  shores  were  visible.  A  young 
moon  added  its  feeble  light  to  the  brilliant  radi- 
ance of  the  stars. 

"  Where  are  we?  "  whispered  Tom.  He  knew 
the  human  voice  carries  a  great  distance  over 
water  and  while  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  who 
could  overhear,  he  would  run  no  unnecessary 
risk.  • 

"  I  never  sailed  no  river  before,"  Jim  cheerily 
answered,  *'  'n  I  dun  know  nothin'  'bout  the 
Jeems  River,  but  I  'low  we've  come  'bout  a  thou- 
sand mile.  'N  it's  nigh  sun-up.  How'll  we-uns 
git  tosho'  'n  hide?" 


262   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  If  we  did  that,"  said  Tom,  "  we'd  have  to 
give  up  our  ship.  Don't  let  us  do  that.  Let's 
say  what  Captain  Lawrence  said:  'Don't  give 
up  the  ship !  '  We'll  call  her  the  '  Liberty  '  and 
sail  her  down  to  Hampton  Roads.  We  can  hide 
in  the  branches  or  the  roots  if  we  meet  anybody 
on  the  river.  Everybody  will  give  us  a  wide 
berth.  We  have  some  food,  thanks  to  you. 
Forty-eight  hours  more  will  see  us  through." 

"  All  right,  Captain,"  Jim  Grayson  replied. 
"  You're  the  commander." 

Up  to  that  time,  the  Confederate  private  had 
been  in  command  of  the  expedition,  but  now 
that  the  Union  officer  was  himself  again,  he  took 
charge  of  everything,  much  to  Jim's  content  and 
also,  we  must  admit,  much  to  Tom's  content. 

The  good  ship  ''  Liberty,"  Tom  Strong,  cap- 
tain, Jim  Grayson,  mate,  .made  a  prosperous 
voyage.  Its  crew  was  thoroughly  scared  three 
or  four  times  by  the  sight  of  Confederate  craft, 
small  and  large.  When  a  gunboat  selected  it  as 
a  floating  target  and  plumped  half-a-dozen  can- 
non balls  around  it,  the  crew  thought  the  end 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   263 

had  come.  But  nobody  on  the  gunboat  saw  the 
two  people  cowering  amid  the  branches  of  the 
tree.  The  gunners  were  untrained.  Their  aim 
was  poor.  And  powder  and  cannon-balls  were 
not  so  abundant  in  the  Confederacy  that  the 
practice-firing  could  continue  long.  Early  on 
the  third  morning  of  the  voyage,  they  were  in 
Hampton  Roads,  borne  by  the  ebbing  tide  to- 
wards the  Union  squadron  that  lay  under  the 
guns  of  Fortress  Monroe.  As  the  sun  rose 
above  the  horizon,  our  flag  sprang  to  the  mast- 
heads of  the  ships.  Tom  felt  like  echoing  Uncle 
Mose's  triumphant  phrase :  "  De  Stars  'n  de 
Stripeses,  dey  jest  kivered  de  sky." 

The  "  Liberty  "  would  have  gone  straight  out 
to  sea,  so  far  as  any  control  by  its  crew  was  con- 
cerned. It  did  go  out  to  sea,  indeed,  but  not 
until  after  Tom  and  Jim  had  been  taken  from 
it  by  a  boat  from  the  Admiral's  ship.  Jim  had 
fired  off  his  gun  to  attract  attention,  as  the 
*'  Liberty  "  neared  the  squadron,  and  then  he 
and  Tom  had  both  stood  up  on  the  teetering 
trunk  of  their  tree  and  shouted  and  waved  their 


264  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

shirts,  which  they  had  taken  off  for  that  pur- 
pose, as  they  had  nothing  else  to  wave,  until 
help  came.  The  "  Liberty  "  had  brought  them 
to  liberty.  They  said  good-by  to  her  almost 
with  regret.  But  their  joy  was  deep  when  they 
stood  on  the  deck  of  the  flagship,  under  the  flag 
of  the  free. 


CHAPTER  XII 

TowsER  Welcomes  Tom  to  the  White  House — 
Lincoln  Re-elected  President — Grant  Com- 
mander-in-Chief— Sherman  Marches  from 
Atlanta  to  the  Sea — Tom  on  Grant's  Staff 
— Five  Forks — Fall  of  Richmond — Hans 
Rolf  Freed — Bob  Saves  Tom  from  Capture 
- — Tom  Takes  a  Battery  into  Action — Lee 
Surrenders — Tom  Strong,  Brevet-Captain 
U.  S.  A. 

^TT^HE  warmest  welcome  Tom  had  at  the 
White  House  was  given  him  by  Towser. 
The  next  warmest  was  given  him  by  Uncle 
Moses  and  the  next  by  Lincoln.  The  staff  was 
glad  to  see  him  back,  but  many  of  them  were 
jealous  of  the  President's  evident  liking  for  him 
and  would  not  have  sorrowed  overmuch  if  he 
had  not  come  back  at  all.  The  patient  Presi- 
dent found  time,  amid  all  his  myriad  cares,  to 

265 


266  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

listen  to  Tom's  story  and  to  make  Secretary 
Stanton  give  a  captain's  commission  to  Jim 
Grayson,  who  was  sent  to  his  own  mountains  to 
gather  recruits  for  the  Union  army.  For 
Towser,  time  existed  only  to  be  spent  in  wel- 
coming his  young  master  home.  He  clung  close 
to  him,  with  slobbering  jaws  and  thumping  tail, 
through  the  first  day,  and  the  first  night  he 
managed  to  escape  from  Uncle  Mose's  care  in 
the  basement  and  to  find  Tom's  attic  room. 
Thenceforth,  as  long  as  Tom  stayed  at  the 
White  House,  Towser  stretched  his  yellow 
bulk  across  the  threshold  of  his  door  every 
night  and  slept  there  the  sleep  of  the  utterly 
happy. 

There  were  no  utterly  happy  men  under  the 
White  House  roof.  Lincoln's  presidential  term 
was  drawing  to  a  close.  He  was  renominated 
by  the  Republicans,  but  his  re-election  at  times 
seemed  impossible.  The  Democrats  had  put 
forward  Gen.  George  B.  McClellan,  once  chief 
commander  of  the  Union  forces,  but  a  pitiful 
failure  as  an  aggressive  general.    A  discontented 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  267 

wing  of  the  Republicans  had  nominated  Gen. 
John  C.  Fremont.  Fremont  had  not  fulfilled  the 
promise  of  his  youth.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
war,  he  had  been  put  in  command  at  St.  Louis, 
had  proved  to  be  incompetent,  and  had  been  re- 
tired. He  was  still  strong  in  the  hearts  of  many 
people,  but  Lincoln  feared  the  success,  not  of 
Fremont,  but  of  McClellan.  John  Hay  once 
said  to  the  President: 

"  Fremont  might  be  dangerous  if  he  had  more 
ability  and  energy." 

''  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "  he  is  like  Jim  Jett's 
brother.  Jim  used  to  say  that  his  brother  was 
the  greatest  scoundrel  that  ever  lived,  but  in  the 
infinite  mercy  of  Providence  he  was  also  the 
greatest  fool." 

Family  sayings,  when  they  are  not  loving,  are 
apt  to  be  bitter.  One  of  the  Vanderbilts  said 
of  a  connection  of  his  by  marriage  that  he  was 
"  more  kinds  of  a  fool  to  the  square  inch  than 
anybody  else  in  the  world." 

McClellan,  who  seemed  practically  certain  of 
success  in  August,   1864,  was  badly  beaten   in 


268   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

November,  when  the  battle  of  parties  was 
fought  out  at  the  polls.  Fremont  had  retired 
from  the  contest  early  in  the  campaign.  At  the 
first  Cabinet  meeting  after  the  election,  Novem- 
ber II,  1864,  the  President  took  a  paper  out  of 
his  desk  and  said : 

''  Gentlemen,  do  you  remember  last  summer 
I  asked  you  all  to  sign  your  names  to  the  back 
of  a  paper,  of  which  I  did  not  show  you  the 
inside?  This  is  it.  Now,  Mr.  Hav,  see  if  vou 
can  get  this  open  without  tearing  it." 

Its  cover  was  so  thoroughly  pasted  up  that  it 
had  to  be  cut  open.  This  done,  Lincoln  read  it 
aloud.     Here  it  is: 

"  Executive  Mansion, 
Washington,  August  23,  1864. 
"  This  morning,  as  for  some  days  past,  it  seems 
exceedingly  probable  that  this  Administration 
will  not  be  re-elected.  Then  it  will  be  my  duty 
to  so  co-operate  with  the  President  elect  as  to 
save  the  Union  between  the  election  and  the  in- 
auguration; as  he  will  have  secured  his  election 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   269 

on  such  ground  that  he  cannot  possibly  save  it 
afterwards. 

A.  Lincoln." 

In  that  memorandum  is  the  sign-manual  of  a 
great  soul.  Lincoln,  believing  his  own  defeat 
was  written  in  the  stars,  thought,  not  of  himself, 
but  of  how  he,  defeated,  could  best  save  the 
cause  of  the  Union  from  defeat.  A  small  man 
thinks  first  of  himself.  A  big  man  thinks  first 
of  his  duty. 

Life  was  happy  at  the  White  House  now. 
The  President  had  been  re-elected  and  it  was 
clear  that  long  before  his  second  term  was  over, 
he  would  have  won  a  victorious  peace.  The 
South  was  still  fighting  with  all  the  energy 
brave  men  can  show  for  a  cause  in  the  righteous- 
ness of  which  they  believe,  but  after  all  the 
energy  was  that  of  despair.  Grant  was  now  in 
supreme  command  of  the  Union  forces,  East  and 
West.  He  had  been  commissioned  Lieutenant- 
General  and  put  in  command  March  17,  1864. 
In   commemoration   of   this   event,    the   turning 


270  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

point  in  the  great  struggle,  Lincoln  had  had  a 
photograph  of  himself  taken.  But  two  copies  of 
it  were  printed.  One  Lincoln  kept  himself.  One 
he  gave  Grant.     Here  is  the  one  given  Grant. 


ABRAHAM  LIN'COLN 

The  new  Lleutenant-General  was  hammering 
away  at  Richmond.  The  Mississippi,  now  under 
Union  control,  cut  the  Confederacy  in  two.  All 
the  chief  Southern  seaports,  except  Savannah 
and  Charleston,  had  been  captured.    And  in  this 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  271 

same  month  of  November,  1864,  Gen.  William 
Tecumseh  Sherman,  who  ranked  only  second  to 
Grant  in  the  United  States  army,  cut  loose  from 
Atlanta,  Georgia,  captured  two  months  before 
and  began  his  famous  march  to  the  sea,  with 
Savannah  as  his  destination.  He  illustrated  his 
own  well-known  saying:  ''War  is  hell."  If  it 
was  hell  in  Sherman's  time,  what  word  can 
describe  the  horror  of  it  in  our  day?  He  swept 
with  sword  and  fire  a  belt  of  fertile  country, 
sixty  miles  wide,  from  Atlanta  to  the  sea.  He 
found  it  smiling  and  rich;  he  left  it  a  bare  and 
blackened  waste.  He  had  destroyed  the  granary 
of  the  Confederacy  and  before  the  next  month 
ended  he  had  made  his  country  a  Christmas 
present  of  the  remaining  chief  Southern  seaport. 
Savannah.  He  wrote  to  Lincoln  :  "  I  beg  to  pre- 
sent to  you  as  a  Christmas  gift  the  city  of 
Savannah,  with  one  hundred  and  fifty  heavy 
guns  and  plenty  of  ammunition  and  also  twenty- 
five  thousand  bales  of  cotton."  Cotton  was 
worth  a  dollar  a  pound  in  those  days. 

Early    in    1865    Sherman    swung    northward 


<( 


(( 


272  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

from  Savannah,  forced  the  surrender  of  Charles- 
ton, South  CaroHna,  and  joined  Union  forces 
advancing  from  the  North  at  Goldsboro',  North 
CaroHna,  March  23.  Six  days  later  Grant  began 
the  final  campaign  against  the  Confederacy. 
Six  days  before,  Lincoln  had  said  to  the  boy : 

''  Tom,  would  you  like  to  see  some  more 
fighting?" 

Yes,  Mr.  President;  very  much." 
Well,  you  needn't  tell  anybody,  but  I  guess 
there'll  be  some  to  see  before  long  near  Rich- 
mond. I've  had  you  ordered  from  special  serv- 
ice at  the  White  House  to  special  service  v^ith 
the  Lieutenant-General.  Here's  the  order  and 
here's  a  letter  to  General  Grant.  I  v^ouldn't 
w^onder  if  he  put  you  on  his  staff." 

How  can  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Lincoln?  " 
The  best  way  to  thank  anybody  is  to  do  well 
the  work  he  gives  you  to  do.     Good-by,  my  son, 
and  good  luck." 

With  a  pressure  of  Lincoln's  huge  hand  Tom 
was  sped  on  his  rejoicing  way.  Two  days  later 
he  was  at  Grant's  headquarters,  at  City  Point, 


(( 


ii 


Gen.  W.  T.  Sherman 

St.    Gaudens'    Statue,    New    York 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  273 

Virginia,  near  Fortress  Monroe.  He  saluted 
and  handed  the  General  Lincoln's  letter.  The 
soldier  sat,  a  silent  sphinx,  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  looked  up  at  Tom  with  a  quizzical  but  not 
unkindly  smile,  and  said : 

"  Have  you  learned  anything  since  you 
brought  me  dispatches  at  Fort  Donelson  and 
Vicksburg?" 

*'  I  hope  so.  General." 

"  Sometimes  the  President  sends  me  people 
for  political  reasons.  I  suppose  he  has  to.  But 
I  don't  take  them  if  I  know  it.  Have  you  any 
political  influence  behind  you?" 

"  Not  a  bit,  sir."  Tom  laughed  at  the 
thought. 

''  You  laugh  well.  You  and  Horace  Porter 
ought  to  get  on  together.  He  laughs  well,  too. 
You  can  serve  on  my  staff. 

*'  I  thank  you.  General." 

Tom  saluted  and  walked  away,  to  find  Horace 
Porter,  whom  he  found  to  be  a  very  nice  fellow 
indeed.  One  of  the  first  things  the  nice  fellow 
did  for  him  was  to  get  him  a  good  horse.    There 


274  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

was  no  lack  of  horses  at  headquarters.  The  dif- 
ficulty was  not  to  find  one,  but  to  choose  the 
best  of  many  good  ones.  Tom,  who  had  a  good 
eye  for  a  horse,  found  one  that  exactly  suited 
him  except  as  to  color.  He  was  of  a  mottled 
gray.  The  boy  did  not  much  care  for  such  a 
color,  but  he  knew  it  had  its  advantages.  It 
does  not  advertise  its  presence.  Where  a  black, 
a  white  or  a  bay  horse  would  stand  out  and 
make  a  mark  for  hostile  sharpshooters,  a  mot- 
tled gray  might  well  elude  their  view.  And  the 
horse,  apart  from  this,  was  just  what  he  wanted. 
He  paced  fast,  he  galloped  fast,  and  he  walked 
fast,  which  is  a  rare  and  precious  accomplish- 
ment in  a  horse.  The  average  horse  walks,  as 
a  rule,  slower  than  the  average  man.  In  an 
hour,  he  covers  a  quarter-of-a-mile  less  ground. 
One  question  remained  to  be  settled. 
Can  he  jump?"  asked  Tom. 
Jump,  is  it?  "  answered  the  soldier-groom. 
"  Shure,  the  cow  that  jumped  over  the  moon 
couldn't  lift  a  leg  to  him." 

"  You  bet  your  life  he  can  jump,"  said  Horace 


(I 


II 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   275 

Porter.     *'  General  Grant  has  ridden  him  twice 
and  I  saw  him  put  Bob  over  a  fence  or  two." 

Not  long  afterwards  Tom  did  bet  his  Hfe  on 
Bob's  jumping.  He  w^as  named  Bob  before  the 
United  States  took  him.  He  had  been  captured 
the  month  before  and  had  come  across  the  Hues 
with  his  name  embroidered  by  some  woman's 
hand   on   his   saddle-blanket   and   with   his   late 


BOB 


owner's  blood  upon  his  saddle.  He  was  a  tall, 
leggy  animal  who  showed  a  trace  of  Arabian 
blood  and  who  needed  to  be  gentled  a  bit  to  get 
his  best  work  out  of  him.     His  mouth  was  ap-  ^^ 


276  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

preciative  of  sugar  and  his  eyes  were  appre- 
ciative of  kindness. 

Both  dogs  and  horses  talk  with  their  eyes. 

"  I  Hke  my  new  master,"  was  what  Bob's  eyes 
said  to  Tom. 

It  was  through  a  chance  suggestion  of  Colonel 
Porter  that  the  boy  saw  most  of  what  he  did  see 
of  the  final  fight  for  •freedom.  Porter  had  pre- 
sented Tom  to  Gen.  Philip  H.  Sheridan,  who 
was  then  at  City  Point,  receiving  Grant's  final 
instructions  for  the  twelve-day  campaign  that 
ended  in  the  fall  of  Richmond  and  the  surrender 
of  Lee's  brave  army.  Sheridan  was  a  stocky, 
red-faced  young  Irishman,  a  graduate  of  West 
Point,  and  a  born  leader  of  men,  especially  of 
cavalrymen.  He  liked  the  clear-eyed  lad  who 
stood  respectfully  before  him.  He  had  done  too 
much  in  his  own  youth  to  think  Tom  was  use- 
less because  he  was  so  young.  Porter  saw  that 
the  boy  had  made  a  good  impression.  He  ven- 
tured a  suggestion. 

"  Why  don't  you  take  young  Strong  with  you, 
General?  " 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  277 

Sheridan   turned   sharply   to   Tom,   asking: 

"  Can  you  ride?  " 

''  Oh,  yes,  sir.  I've  ridden  ever  since  I  can 
remember." 

"  Well,  that's  not  so  very  long  a  time.  But 
I'll  take  your  word  for  it.  Would  you  like  to  go 
with  me?  " 

''  I'd  like  it  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  General." 

Tom  had  rejoiced  in  the  idea  of  being  with 
Grant,  but  he  knew  that  the  commander-in- 
chief  must  stay  behind  his  lines  and  that  his 
staff  could  catch  but  glimpses  of  the  fighting, 
when  they  were  sent  forward  with  orders, 
whereas  with  Sheridan  he  might  be  in  the  very 
thick  of  the  fighting  itself.  His  ready  answer 
and  the  joy  that  beamed  in  his  eyes  pleased  the 
fighting  Irishman. 

"Can  I  borrow  him  of  General  Grant?" 
Sheridan  asked  Porter. 

"  I'll  answer  for  that,"  Porter  replied.  ''  The 
General  told  me  to  put  Strong  to  whatever  work 
I  could  find  for  him  to  do." 


278   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

'*  Come  ahead,"  said  Sheridan.  *'  You'll  see 
some  beautiful  fighting!" 

Sheridan  loved  fighting,  but  he  made  no  pre- 
tense of  never  being  afraid.  He  thought  a  gen- 
eral should  be  close  to  the  front,  to  keep  his 
soldiers'  spirits  high. 

''Are  you  never  afraid?"  Charles  A.  Dana, 
then  Assistant  Secretary  of  War,  once  asked 
him. 

"  If  I  was,  I  should  not  be  ashamed  of  it.  If  I 
should  follow  my  natural  impulse,  I  should  run 
away  always  at  the  beginning  of  the  danger. 
The  men  who  say  they  are  never  afraid  in  a  bat- 
tle do  not  tell  the  truth." 

« 

March  29,  1865,  the  twelve-day  campaign  be- 
gan. The  cavalry  swung  out  towards  Five 
Forks,  where  Lee's  right  wing  lay  behind  deep 
entrenchments.  April  i,  Sheridan  attacked  in 
force.  Americans  fought  Americans  with  stub- 
born bravery  on  both  sides.  The  issue  was  long 
in  doubt.  Sheridan  and  his  staff  were  close  to 
the  firing-line,  so  that  Tom  had  but  a  few  hun- 


Statue  of  Gen.  Philip  H.   Sheridan 
Sheridan   Square,   Washington,   D.   C. 

Copyright    by    Underwood    &    Underwood,    New    York. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  279 

dred  yards  to  gallop  under  fire  when  his  general 
said  to  him : 

**  Tell  General  Griffin  to  charge  and  keep 
charging." 

Griffin's  order  to  his  troops  was  so  quickly 
given  that  it  seemed  an  echo  of  the  order  Tom 
brought  him.  It  was  the  boy's  business  to  re- 
turn forthwith  and  report  upon  his  mission,  but 
he  simply  couldn't  do  it.  There  were  the  Con- 
federate lines  manned  with  hungry  soldiers  in 
the  remnants  of  their  gray  uniforms,  the  Stars- 
and-Bars  flying  above  them.  And  there  w^ere 
battalions  of  blue-clad  cavalry,  men  and  horses 
in  prime  condition,  straining  to  start  like  hounds 
upon  a  leash.  Griffin's  order  was  the  electric 
spark  that  fired  the  battery.  The  men  shouted 
with  joy  as  they  spurred  their  horses  into  a  mad 
gallop.  The  shout  was  answered  by  the  shrill 
"  rebel  yell "  from  the  dauntless  foe  in  the 
trenches.  The  charging  column  shook  the 
ground.  In  its  foremost  files  rode  Second- 
lieutenant  Tom  Strong,  forgetful  of  everything 
else  in  the  world  but  the  joy  of  battle.   Musketry 


28o  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

and  artillery  tore  bloody  lanes  in  the  close- 
packed  column.  Men  and  horses  fell  in  heaps 
upon  the  blood-stained  ground.  But  the  column 
went  on.  At  dusk  of  that  April  day  it  poured 
over  the  parapets  so  bravely  held.  Even  then 
the  fight  was  not  over.  There  was  still  stout 
resistance.  The  two  armies  were  a  mass  of 
struggling  men,  shooting,  stabbing,  striking. 
The  battle  had  become  a  series  of  duels  man  to 
man.  Tom,  pistol  in  hand,  rode  at  a  big  Ken- 
tuckian,  but  the  gray-clad  giant  dodged  the  bul- 
let, caught  his  own  unloaded  musket  by  the 
muzzle,  and  dealt  the  boy  a  blow  with  its  butt 
that  knocked  him  off  his  horse  and  left  him 
senseless  on  the  ground. 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  he  came  to  his 
senses,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  a  boy  annexed  to  a 
shoulder  twice  as  big  as  all  the  rest  of  his  body. 
It  was  on  his  shoulder  that  the  blow  of  the 
clubbed  musket  had  gone  home.  The  fall  from 
his  horse  had  stunned  him.  Bob  was  standing 
over  him,  as  Black  Auster  stood  over  Her- 
minius,  nuzzling  at  the  outstretched  hand  of  this 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  281 

silent,  motionless  thing  that  had  been  his 
master.  They  had  been  together  for  less  than 
a  week,  but  a  day  is  often  long  enough  for  a 
horse  to  find  out  that  his  master  is  his  friend. 
Tom  had  been  more  careful  of  his  horse's  com- 
fort than  of  his  own.  Now  the  good  gray  had 
stood  by  him  and  over  him,  perhaps  saving  him 
from  being  trampled  to  death  in  that  fierce  last 
act  of  the  Drama  of  Five  Forks.  Bob  whinnied 
with  joy  as  Tom's  eyes  slowly  opened  again. 
He  thrust  his  muzzle  down  along  the  boy's 
cheek  and  the  boy  caught  hold  of  the  flowing 
mane  with  his  right  hand  and  pulled  himself 
upon  his  feet  again.  His  left  arm  hung  useless 
by  his  side.  One  glance  told  him  the  battle  was 
won.  The  duels  were  over.  The  Confederates 
were  in  full  retreat.  A  stream  of  prisoners  was 
already  flowing  by  him.  He  mounted  and  fol- 
lowed it  to  Sheridan's  headquarters.  There  the 
skillful  fingers  of  a  surgeon  found  that  no  bones 
were  broken.  The  swollen  shoulder  was  dressed 
and  bandaged.  The  healthy  blood  that  filled 
Tom's  veins  did  much  to  make  a  speedy  cure. 


282  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

So  did  the  joy  of  victory.  Sheridan  had  done 
what  Grant  had  given  him  to  do.  He  had 
driven  back  Lee's  right  flank  and  cut  the  rail- 
road by  which  Lee  must  escape  from  Richmond, 
if  escape  he  could. 

Richmond  was  doomed.  The  next  morning, 
Sunday,  April  2,  1865,  Jefferson  Davis,  Presi- 
dent of  the  Confederate  States  of  America,  sat 
in  his  pew  in  St.  Paul's  Church,  Richmond.  The 
solemn  service  began.  Soon  there  was  a  stir  at 
the  door,  a  rustle,  a  turning  of  heads  away  from 
the  chancel,  where  the  gray-haired  rector  stood. 
Swiftly  a  messenger  came  up  the  aisle.  Davis 
rose  from  his  knees  to  receive  the  message.  The 
service  stopped.  Every  eye  was  bent  upon  the 
leader  of  the  Lost  Cause.  He  put  on  his  spec- 
tacles, opened  the  missive,  and  read  it  amid  a 
breathless  silence.  It  told  him  that  the  Cause 
was  lost  indeed.  It  was  from  Lee,  who  wrote: 
'*  My  lines  are  broken  in  three  places.  Rich- 
mond must  be  evacuated  this  evening."  There 
was  no  sign  of  feeling  upon  Jefferson  Davis's 
impassive  face,  as  he  read  the  fateful  dispatch. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   283 

Without  a  word,  without  a  sign,  he  left  the 
church  with  the  wife  whose  utter  devotion  had 
helped  him  bear  the  burden  of  those  terrible 
years,  during  which  proud  hope  gradually  gave 
way  to  sickening  fear.  Davis  was  not  of  those 
weak  men  who  despair.  There  was  still  a  little 
hope  in  his  heart,  despite  the  tremendous  blow 
Lee's  letter  had  dealt  him.  He  walked  down 
the  aisle  with  head  as  high  as  though  he  were 
marching  to  assured  victory.  But  through  the 
congregation  there  ran  the  whisper  ''  Richmond 
is  to  be  evacuated."  A  panic-stricken  mob 
poured  out  of  the  church  with  faltering  steps 
behind  Jefferson  Davis's  firm,  proud  ones. 
Early  that  afternoon  the  Confederate  Govern- 
ment fled.  Early  the  next  morning,  Monday, 
April  3,  1865,  Gen.  Godfrey  Weitzel  marched 
his  negro  troops  into  the  Confederate  capital. 
The  flag  of  the  free  floated  from  the  dome  of 
the  Statehouse,  which  almost  from  the  earliest 
days  of  the  war  had  sheltered  what  was  now 
indeed  the  Lost  Cause.  It  was  raised  there  by 
Lieut.    Johnston    L.    De    Peyster,    a    youth    of 


284  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

eighteen,  who  had  carried  it  wrapped  around  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle  for  some  days,  hoping  for 
the  chance  that  now  came  to  him.  The  second 
Union  flag  that  was  raised  that  day  in  Richmond 
was  over  Libby.  The  prison  gates  gave  up  their 
prey.  The  prisoners  poured  out,  some  too  weak 
to  do  more  than  smile,  others  in  a  frenzy  of 
joy.  Major  Hans  Rolf,  reduced  by  hunger  to  a 
long  lath  of  a  man,  had  lost  none  of  his  spirit. 

"  Now,  boys,"  he  shouted,  "  three  times  three 
for  the  old  flag!" 

The  cheers  rang  out  in  a  feeble  chorus  and 
then  there  rang  out  Han's  contagious  laughter. 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  roared.     "We're   free,  boys, 
we're  free." 

By  that  Sunday  night,  the  fate  of  Petersburg 
was  sealed.  Grant  had  ordered  an  assault  in 
force  at  six  o'clock  Monday  morning,  but  the 
Confederates  abandoned  their  works  in  the  gray 
dawn  and  our  troops  met  little  resistance  in  tak- 
ing over  the  town.  "  General  Meade  and  I, 
says  General  Grant  in  his  "  Personal  Memoirs, 
"  entered    Petersburg   on    the    morning   of    the 


)) 


>> 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   285 

third  and  took  a  position  under  cover  of  a  house 
which  protected  us  from  the  enemy's  musketry 
which  was  flying  thick  and  fast  there.  As  we 
would  occasionally  look  around  the  corner,  we 
could  see  .  .  .  the  Appomattox  bottom  .  .  . 
packed  with  the  Confederate  army.  ...  I  had 
not  the  heart  to  turn  the  artillery  upon  such  a 
mass  of  defeated  and  fleeing  men  and  I  hoped 
to  capture  them  soon." 

"  Let  us  follow  up  Lee,"  Meade  suggested. 
He  was  a  better  follower  than  a  fighter.  He  had 
followed  Lee  before,  from  Gettysburg  to  Rich- 
mond, without  ever  attacking  him. 

'*  On  the  contrary,"  Grant  replied,  "  we  will 
cut  off  his  retreat  by  occupying  the  Danville  rail- 
road and  capture  him.  He  must  get  to  his  food 
to  keep  his  troops  alive.  We  will  get  between 
him  and  his  food." 

With  constant  fighting  this  was  done.  By 
Wednesday,  April  5,  the  Union  lines  were  drawn 
about  the  Confederate  army.  Sheridan,  ham- 
pered by  Meade's  slowness,  was  urgent  that 
Grant  should  come  to  the  front.     He  sent  mas- 


286  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

sage  after  message  to  that  effect  to  Grant  on 
Wednesday.  A  scout  in  gray  uniform  was  en- 
trusted with  the  second  message.  He  was  made 
up  to  look  hke  a  Confederate  scout,  but  he  was 
Tom  Strong.  He  had  put  on  his  disguise  at 
Sheridan's  headquarters.  As  he  stood  at  atten- 
tion to  receive  his  orders,  Sheridan  laughed  and 
said : 

"  You  make  a  good  '  Johnny  Reb.'  Do  you 
chew  tobacco?  " 

Surprised  at  the  question,  Tom  said  he  didn't. 

"  Well,  you  may  have  to  begin  the  habit  today. 
You're  to  take  this  message  to  General  Grant. 
If  you're  caught,  chew  it — and  swallow  it  quick." 

He  handed  the  boy  a  bit  of  tinfoil.  It  looked 
like  a  small  package  of  chewing-tobacco,  but  it 
contained  a  piece  of  tissue-paper  upon  which 
Sheridan's  message  was  written. 

The  ride  from  the  left  flank  to  the  center  was 
•not  without  danger.  Tom,  duly  provided  with 
the  password,  could  go  by  any  Union  forces 
without  difficulty,  but  the  country  swarmed 
with    Confederates,    some    of    them    deserters, 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   287 

many  of  them  straggling  detachments  cut  off 
from  the  main  army  and  seeking  to  rejoin  it,  all 
of  them  more  than  ready  to  capture  a  Union 
soldier  and  his  horse. 

The  boy  climbed  a  little  clumsily  into  the  sad- 
dle. His  left  shoulder  still  felt  like  a  big  balloon 
stuffed  full  of  pain.  But  there  was  nothing 
clumsy  in  his  seat,  as  Bob  shot  off  like  an  arrow 
at  the  touch  of  Tom's  heel  on  his  flank.  It  was 
a  beautiful,  bright  April  morning,  too  beautiful 
a  day  for  men  to  be  killing  each  other.  Evi- 
dently, however,  it  did  not  seem  so  to  the  com- 
mander of  a  company  of  Confederate  cavalry, 
who  had  laid  an  ambush  into  which  Tom  gayly 
galloped.  He  heard  a  sharp  order  to  halt.  He 
saw  men  ride  across  the  road  in  front  of  him. 
He  whirled  about,  only  to  see  the  road  behind 
him  blocked.  He  was  fairly  trapped.  But  there 
was  one  chance  of  escaping  from  the  trap  and 
Tom  took  it.  His  would-be  captors  had  come 
from  the  left  of  the  road,  its  northern  side,  for 
he  was  traveling  east.  On  the  south  was  a  high 
rail-fence,  laid  in  the  usual  zigzags,  one  of  the 


288   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

few  which  had  not  fed  the  camp-fires  of  Northern 
Virginia.  It  was  a  good  five  feet  high;  it  was 
only  a  few  feet  away;  Bob  was  standing  still 
for  a  second  in  slippery  mud.  It  was  not  at  all 
the  kind  of  place  to  select  for  a  jump,  but  the 
Confederates  had  selected  the  place,  not  Tom. 
He  remembered  Colonel  Porter's  saying  "  You 
can  bet  your  life  Bob  can  jump,"  and  he  bet  his 
life  on  Porter's  being  right.  He  put  Bob  at 
the  fence.  The  gallant  gray,  as  if  he  sensed  his 
master's  danger,  took  one  bound  toward  the 
rails,  gathered  himself  together  into  a  tense 
mass  of  muscle,  and  rose  into  the  air  like  a  bird. 
As  he  flew  over  the  top-rail,  carbines  cracked  be- 
hind him,  but  as  he  leaped  southward  across  the 
countryside,  a  ringing  cheer  followed  him  too. 
The  brave  Southerners  rejoiced  in  the  brave  feat 
that  took  their  captive  into  freedom.  Their  jaded 
horses  could  not  follow.  There  was  no  pursuit. 
It  took  Tom  some  hours  to  double  back  to- 
wards Grant's  headquarters.  He  met  long  lines 
of  Union  cavalry,  infantry,  and  artillery  pressing 
forward  to  strengthen  Sheridan's  forces.     They 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   289 

were  going  west  and  they  choked  every  road 
and  lane  and  path  by  which  the  boy  sought  to  go 
east.  They  had  begun  their  march  at  three 
o'clock  that  morning.  They  had  had  no  break- 
fast. They  carried  no  food.  Their  wagon-trains 
were  miles  in  the  rear.  It  was  their  fourth  day 
of  continuous  fighting.  They  had  a  right  to  be 
tired,  but  they  were  not  tired.  They  had  a  right 
to  be  hungry,  but  they  were  not  hungry.  When 
the  air  was  full  of  victory,  what  did  an  empty 
stomach  matter?  Cheering  and  singing,  they 
swept  along.  The  end  of  four  years'  fighting 
was  in  sight.  The  hunted  foe  was  trying  to 
slink  away  to  safety,  as  many  a  fox,  with  hounds 
and  huntsmen  closing  in  upon  him,  had  tried  to 
do  on  these  Virginian  fields.  Never  were  hunts- 
men more  anxious  to  be  "  in  at  the  death  "  than 
were  those  joyous  Union  soldiers  on  that  meni- 
orable  April  day. 

It  was  nearly  night  when  the  boy  reached 
headquarters,  saluted  the  commander-in-chief, 
said  ''  A  message  from  General  Sheridan,"  and 
handed  over  the  little  tinfoil  package. 


290   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  You  can  go  back  with  me,"  said  Grant. 
"That  horse  of  yours  is  Bob,  isn't  it?  "  Grant 
never  forgot  a  horse  he  had  once  ridden. 

Within  an  hour  the  General  and  his  staff,  with 
a  small  cavalry  escort,  started  for  Sheridan's 
headquarters.  By  ten  that  night  the  two  were 
together.  Sheridan  was  almost  crying  over  the 
orders  Meade  had  given  him.  By  midnight 
Sheridan  was  happy.  ''  I  explained  to  IMeade," 
say  the  ''  Personal  Memoirs,"  ''  that  we  did  not 
want  to  follow  the  enemy;  we  wanted  to  get 
ahead  of  him;  and  that  his  orders  would  allow 
the  enemy  to  escape.  .  .  .  IMeade  changed  his 
orders  at  once." 

That  change  of  orders  incidentally  put  Tom 
Strong  the  next  day  into  the  hottest  fight  of  his 
life.  This  was  the  battle  of  Sailor's  Creek,  al- 
most forgotten  since  amid  the  mightier  happen- 
ings of  that  wonderful  April  week,  but  never 
forgotten  by  Tom  Strong.  Our  forces  had  at- 
tacked Lee's  retreating  legions,  retreating  to- 
ward the  provision  trains  that  were  their  only 
hope  of  food.     The  fight  was  fierce.     We  had 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  291 

attacked  with  both  infantry  and  cavalry,  but  our 
gallant  fellow-countrymen  held  their  lines  un- 
broken. Then  with  a  thunder  of  wheels  our 
field  artillery  came  into  action.  The  Confeder- 
ate guns  were  shelling  the  hillside  up  which  the 
plunging  horses  drew  our  cannon.  There  were 
six  horses  in  each  team,  an  artilleryman  riding 
each  near  horse  and  holding  the  oK  horse  of 
the  pair  by  a  bridle.  Tom  had  come  up  with 
orders  and  was  standing  by  General  Wright  as 
the  guns  bounded  up  the  hillside.  Bob  stood 
behind  his  master,  whinnying  a  bit  with  excite- 
ment. 

General  Wright  snapped  his  watch  shut  impa- 
tiently. 

"  They're  ten  minutes  late,"  he  complained. 
"  We're  beaten  if  we  don't  get  'em  into  action 
instantly.  Good  Heavens!  there  goes  our  first 
gun  to  destruction!" 

A  Confederate  shell  had  struck  and  burst 
close  to  the  leaders.  A  fragment  of  it  swept  the 
foremost  rider  from  his  seat  and  from  life.  The 
two   horses    he    had    handled    reared,    plunged, 


292   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

jumped  to  one  side.  The  six  horses  were  hud- 
dled into  a  frightened  heap.  The  two  other  sol- 
diers could  do  nothing  with  the  leaders  out  of 
control.  The  gun  stopped  short.  And  behind  it 
stopped  all  of  one  of  the  two  lines  of  advancing 
artillery. 

"  Take  that  gun  into  action !  " 

Tom  heard  the  General's  brief  command  and 
ran  toward  the  huddled  horses.  He  sprang  into 
the  saddle,  seized  both  bridles,  and  drove  on. 
As  he  did  so,  another  Confederate  shell  burst 
beside  the  off  horse.  Its  fragments  spared  the 
foremost  rider  this  time,  but  they  dealt  death 
to  one  of  his  two  comrades.  The  man  in  con- 
trol of  the  wheelers  threw  his  right  arm  out  and 
toppled  over  into  the  road,  dead  before  the 
heavy  cannon-wheel  crashed  and  crushed  over 
him.  The  leaders,  so  skillfully  handled  that 
their  very  fear  made  them  run  more  madly  into 
danger,  tore  ahead,  keeping  the  other  four 
horses  galloping  behind  them,  until  the  gun  was 
in  position.  It  roared  the  news  of  its  coming 
with   a  well-aimed   shot   into   the   midst   of   the 


2 

O 

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o 

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H 


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:^ 

o 


Tom  Stroilg,  Lincoln's  Scout  293 

enemy's  forces.  Its  fellows  fell  into  line  and 
followed  suit.  The  infantry  and  cavalry  at- 
tacked with  renewed  spirit.  Sullenly  and  sav- 
agely, fighting  until  darkness  forbade  more 
fighting,  Lee's  troops  withdrew  towards  the 
west,  with  the  Union  forces  pounding  away  at 
them.  They  left  a  mass  of  dead  upon  the  battle- 
field, lives  finely  lost  for  the  Lost  Cause,  and 
they  also  left  as  prisoners  six  general  officers 
and  seven  thousand  men.  More  than  a  third  of 
all  the  prisoners  taken  in  the  battles  before  the 
final  surrender  were  taken  at  the  battle  of 
Sailor's  Creek.  Tom  had  stuck  to  his  new  arm 
of  the  service  through  the  three  hours  of  fight- 
ing. The  guns  had  been  continually  advanced 
as  the  Southerners  retreated.  They  had  been 
continually  under  fire.  Nearly  half  the  gunners 
had  been  killed  or  wounded.  When  the  fight 
was  over,  Tom  remembered  for  the  first  time  his 
own  wounded  shoulder.  He  had  never  thought 
of  it  from  the  moment  when  he  had  sprung  upon 
the  artillery  horse.  Now  it  began  to  throb  with 
a  renewed  and  a  deeper  pain,  as  if  resenting  his 


294   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

ignoring  of  it  so  long,  but  the  new  pain  also 
vanished  when  he  rejoined  General  Wright  and 
heard  him  say : 

''  Mr.  Strong,  you  helped  to  save  the  day. 
I  shall  recommend  you  for  promotion  for  dis- 
tinguished bravery  under  fire." 

The  boy  saluted,  his  heart  too  full  to  speak. 
As  he  rode  away  upon  Bob,  some  of  the  joy 
in  his  heart  must  have  got  into  Bob's  heels,  for 
Bob  pirouetted  up  the  main  street  of  the  little 
town  of  Farmville,  late  that  night,  as  though  he 
were  prouder  than  ever  of  his  master. 

Farmville  was  now  headquarters.  Grant  was 
there,  in  a  bare  hotel,  not  long  before  a  Confed- 
erate hospital.  It  was  from  the  Farmville  hotel 
that  he  wrote  to  Lee  a  historic  note.  It  ran 
thus: 

"  Headquarters  Armies  of  the  U.  S. 
5  P.M.,  April  7,  1865. 
"  General  R.  E.  Lee, 

Commanding  C.  S.  A. : 

The  results  of  the  last  week  must  convince 
you  of  the  hopelessness  of  further  resistance  on 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  295 

the  part  of  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  in 
this  struggle.  I  feel  that  it  is  so,  and  regard  it 
as  my  duty  to  shift  from  myself  the  responsi- 
bility of  any  further  effusion  of  blood  by  asking 
of  you  the  surrender  of  that  portion  of  the  Con- 
federate States  army  known  as  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia. 

U.  S.  Grant, 
Lieut. -General." 

Under  a  flag  of  truce,  this  note  reached  Gen- 
eral Lee  that  evening,  so  near  together  were  the 
headquarters  of  the  contending  armies  in  those 
last  days.  His  letter  in  reply,  asking  what  terms 
of  surrender  were  offered,  reached  Grant  the 
next  morning  while  he  was  talking  on  the  steps 
of  the  Farmville  hotel  to  a  Confederate  Colonel. 

"Jes'  tho't  I'd  repo't  to  you.  General,"  said 
the  Colonel. 

"Yes?"   ' 

"  You  see  I  own  this  hyar  hotel  you're 
a-occupyin'." 

"  Well,  sir,  we  shall  move  out  soon.     We  are 


296   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

moving  around  a  good  deal,  nowadays.  Why 
aren't  you  with  your  regiment?  " 

*'  Well,  you  see,  General,  I  am  my  regiment." 

"How's  that?" 

"  All  the  men  wuz  raised  'round  hyar.  A  few 
days  ago  they  jes'  begun  nachally  droppin'  out. 
They  all  dun  dropped  out,  General,  so  I  jes' 
tho't  there  wan't  any  use  being  a  cunnel  with- 
out no  troops  and  I  dun  dropped  out  too.  Here 
I  be?  What  you  goin'  to  do  with  me,  Gen- 
eral?" 

"  I'm  going  to  leave  you  here  to  take  care  of 
your  property.  Don't  go  back  to  your  army  and 
nobody'll  bother  you." 

That  was  a  sample  of  the  way  in  which  the 
beaten  army  was  melting  away.  Not  even  the 
magic  of  Lee's  great  name  could  hold  it  together 
now.  But  the  men  who  did  not  drop  out  fought 
with  heroism  to  the  bitter  end. 

The  next  day,  Saturday,  April  8,  1865, 
Sheridan  captured  some  more  of  Lee's  provi- 
sion trains  at  Appomattox  Station  and  on  Sun- 
day, April  9,  Lee's  whole  army  attacked  there. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  297 

still  seeking  to  cut  its  way  out  of  its  encircling 
foes.  Its  brave  effort  was  in  vain.  Held  in  a 
vice,  it  threw  up  its  hands.  A  white  flag  flew 
above  the  Confederate  lines. 

Grant  had  spent  Saturday  night  struggling 
with  a  sick  headache,  his  feet  in  hot  water  and 
mustard,  his  wrists  and  the  back  of  his  neck  cov- 
ered with  mustard-plasters.  On  Sunday  morn- 
ing, still  sick  and  suffering,  he  was  jogging  along 
on  horseback  towards  the  front,  when  a  Confed- 
erate officer  was  brought  before  him.  He  car- 
ried a  note  from  Lee  offering  to  surrender. 
When  the  officer  reached  me,"  writes  Grant, 
I  was  still  suffering  with  the  sick  headache; 
but  the  instant  I  saw  the  contents  of  the  note, 
I  was  cured."  The  ending  of  the  war  ended 
Grant's  headache. 

The  two  commanders  met  at  Appomattox 
Court  House,  a  sleepy  Virginian  village,  five 
miles  from  the  railroad  and  endless  miles  from 
the  great  world.  It  lies  in  a  happy  valley,  not 
wrapped  in  happiness  that  April  day,  for  Sheri- 


<< 


(t 


298   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

dan's  forces  held  the  crest  at  the  south  and  Lee's 
were  deployed  along  the  hilltop  to  the  north.  A 
two-hour  armistice  had  been  granted.  If  that 
did  not  bring  the  end  desired,  that  end  was  to 
be  fought  out  with  all  the  horrors  of  warfare 
amid  the  peaceful  houses  that  had  straggled  to- 
gether to  make  the  peaceful  little  town. 

At  the  northern  end  of  the  village  street,  sur- 
rounded by  an  apple  orchard,  stood  a  two-story 
brick  house  with  a  white  wooden  piazza  in  front 
of  it.  It  was  the  home  of  Wilmer  McLean,  a 
Virginia  farmer  upon  whose  farm  part  of  the 
battle  of  Bull  Run  had  been  fought  at  the  out- 
break of  the  war.  Foreseeing  that  other  battles 
might  be  fought  there — as  the  second  battle  of 
Bull  Run,  in  1862,  was — he  had  sold  his  prop- 
erty there  and  had  moved  by  a  strange  chance 
to  the  very  village  and  the  very  house  in  which 
the  final  scene  of  the  great  tragedy  of  this  war 
between  brothers  was  to  be  played.  Here  Lee 
awaited  Grant. 

The  Union  general  had  gone  to  Sheridan's 
headquarters  before  riding  up  to  the   McLean 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  299 

house.  Sheridan  and  his  staff  had  gone  on  with 
him.  Least  important  of  the  Httle  group  of 
Union  ofificers  who  followed  Grant  into  the 
presence  of  Lee  was  Tom  Strong,  but  the  boy's 
heart  beat  as  high  as  that  of  any  man  there. 


Vikk" 


THE  McLEAN  HOUSE,  APPOMATTOX  COURTHOUSE 

It  was  in  the  orchard  about  the  house  that 
the  myth  of  ''  the  apple-tree  of  Appomattox  " 
was  born.  Millions  of  men  and  women  have 
believed  that  Lee  surrendered  to  Grant  under  an 
apple  tree  at  Appomattox.     That  apple  tree  is 


300  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

as  famous  in  mistaken  history  as  is  that  other 
mythical  tree,  the  cherry  tree  which  George 
Washington  did  not  cut  down  with  his  Uttle 
hatchet.  Washington  could  not  tell  a  lie,  it  is 
true,  but  he  never  chopped  down  a  cherry  tree 
and  then  said  to  his  angry,  questioning  father: 
''  Father,  I  cannot  tell  a  lie;  I  cut  it  down  with 
my  little  hatchet."  That  fairy  story  came  from 
the  imagination  of  one  Parson  AVeems,  who  did 
not  resemble  our  first  President  in  the  latter's 
inability  to  tell  lies.  Perhaps  the  myth  of  the 
apple  tree  will  never  die,  as  the  myth  of  the 
cherry  tree  has  never  died.  In  1880,  when 
Grant's  mistaken  friends  tried  to  nominate  him 
for  a  third  Presidential  term,  other  candidates 
had  been  urged  because  this  one,  it  was  said, 
could  carry  Ohio,  that  one  Maine,  and  so  on. 
Then  Roscoe  Conkling  of  New  York  strode 
upon  the  stage  to  nominate  Grant  and  declaimed 
to  a  hushed  audience  of  twenty  thousand  men: 

"And  if  you  ask  what  State  he  comes  from. 
Our  sole  reply  shall  be : 
HE  comes  from  Appomattox 
And  the  famous  apple  tree !  " 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  301 

The  twenty  thousand  were  swept  off  their  feet 
by  the  magic  of  that  myth.  Grant  was  almost 
nominated — but  not  quite. 

The  historic  interview  began  in  the  room  to 
the  left  of  the  front  door  in  the  McLean  house. 
Two    very    different    figures    confronted    each 
other.     Grant  had  not  expected  the  meeting  to 
take  place  so  soon  and  had  left  the  farmhouse 
where  he  had  spent  the  night  before  in  rough 
garb.     He  writes:  *' I  was  without  a  sword,  as 
I  usually  was  when  on  horseback  in  the  field, 
and  wore  a  soldier's  blouse  for  a  coat,  with  the 
shoulder-straps  of  my   rank   to  indicate  to   the 
army    who    I    was.     .     .     .     General    Lee    was 
dressed   in   a   full   uniform,   which  was   entirely 
new,  and  was  wearing  a  sword  of  considerable 
value,  very  likely  the  sword  which  had  been  pre- 
sented by  the   State  of  Virginia.    ...    In   my 
rough  traveling  suit,  the  uniform  of  a  private 
with  the  straps  of  a  lieutenant-general,  I  must 
have  contrasted  very  strangely  with  a  man  so 
handsomely  dressed,  six  feet  high  and  of  fault- 


302   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

less  form.     But  this  was  not  a  matter  that  I 
thought  of  until  afterwards." 

Lee  requested  that  the  terms  to  be  given  his 
army  should  be  written  out.  Grant  asked  Gen- 
eral Parker  of  his  staff,  a  full-blooded  American 
Indian,  for  writing  materials.  He  had  prepared 
nothing  beforehand,  but  he  knew  just  what  he 
wanted  to  say  and  he  wrote  without  hesitation 
terms  such  as  only  a  great  and  magnanimous 
nation  could  offer  its  conquered  citizens.  After 
providing  for  the  giving  of  paroles  (that  is,  an 
agreement  not  to  take  up  arms  again  unless  the 
paroled  prisoner  is  later  exchanged  for  a  pris- 
oner of  the  other  side)  and  for  the  surrender  of 
arms,  artillery,  and  public  property,  he  added: 
"  This  will  not  embrace  the  sidearms  of  the  of- 
ficers nor  their  private  horses  or  baggage.  This 
done,  each  officer  and  man  will  be  allowed  to 
return  to  their  homes,  not  to  be  disturbed  by 
United  States  authority  so  long  as  they  observe 
their  paroles  and  the  laws  in  force  where  they 
reside."  There  are  some  mistakes  in  grammar 
in   these  words,   but  there   are   no   mistakes  in 


Lee  Surrenders  to  Grant 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   303 

magnanimity.  When  Lee,  having  put  on  his 
glasses,  had  read  the  first  sentence  quoted 
above,  he  said  with  feeHng: 

*'  This  will  have  a  happy  effect  upon  my 
army." 

He  went  on  to  say  that  many  of  the  privates 
in  the  Confederate  cavalry  and  artillery  owned 
their  own  horses;  could  they  retain  them? 
Grant  did  not  change  the  written  terms,  but  he 
said  his  officers  would  be  instructed  to  let  every 
Confederate  private  w^ho  claimed  to  own  a  horse 
or  mule  take  the  animal  home  with  him.  "  It 
was  doubtful,"  writes  Grant,  "  whether  they 
would  be  able  to  put  in  a  crop  to  carry  them- 
selves and  their  families  through  the  next  winter 
without  the  aid  of  the  horses  they  were  then 
riding."  Again  Lee  remarked  that  this  would 
have  a  happy  effect.  He  then  wrote  and  signed 
an  acceptance  of  the  proposed  terms  of  sur- 
render. The  war  was  over.  The  first  act  of 
peace  was  our  issuing  25,000  rations  to  the  army 
we  had  captured.  For  some  days  it  had  lived 
on  parched  corn. 


304   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

The  news  of  the  surrender  flashed  along  the 
waiting  Hnes  like  wildfire  and  the  Union  forces 
began  firing  a  salute  of  a  hundred  guns  in  honor 
of  the  victory.      "  I   at   once   sent   word,"   says 


GEN.   U.  S.  GRANT 

Grant,  "  to  have  it  stopped.  The  Confederates 
were  now  our  prisoners  and  we  did  not  want  to 
exult  over  their  downfall."  This  was  the  spirit 
of  a  great  man  and  of  a  great  nation.  It  was 
not  the  soldiers  who  fought  the  war  who  kept 
its  rancors  alive  after  peace  had  come.     It  was 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  305 

the  politicians,  who  tore  open  the  old  wounds 
and  kept  the  country  bleeding  for  a  dozen  years 
after  the  Lost  Cause  was  lost. 

On  the  morning  of  Tuesday,  April  lo,  1865, 
Grant  and  Lee  again  met  between  the  lines  and 
sitting  on  horseback  talked  for  half  an  hour. 
Then  Grant  began  his  journey  to  Washington. 
His  staff,  including  Tom,  went  with  him.  When 
they  reached  their  goal,  Second-Lieutenant 
Strong  found  he  was  that  no  longer.  For  Gen- 
eral  Wright  had  done  what  he  had  told  Tom 
he  meant  to  do.  The  recommendation  had  been 
heeded.  Lincoln  himself  handed  the  boy  his 
new  commission  as  a  brevet-captain. 

''  I  was  glad  to  sign  that,  Tom,"  the  President 
told  him,  "  and  even  Stanton  didn't  kick  this 
time." 

''  You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  get  it, 
Mr.  President,"  was  the  reply.  ''  Now  I'm  a 
boy-captain,  as  my  great-grandfather  was  be- 
fore me." 

"  I'm  not  much  on  pedigrees  and  ancestry  and 
genealogical  trees,  my  boy,"  answered  Lincoln. 


3o6  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"  Out  West  we  think  more  of  trees  that  grow 
out  of  the  ground  than  we  do  of  trees  that  grow 
on  parchment.  But  you're  right  to  be  proud  of 
an  ancestry  of  service  to  your  country.  When 
family  pride  is  based  on  money  or  land  or  social 
standing,  it  is  one  of  the  most  foolish  things 
God  Almighty  ever  laughed  at,  but  when  it  is 
based  on  service,  real  service,  to  your  country, 
to  your  fellowmen,  to  the  world,  why,  then, 
Tom,  it's  one  of  the  biggest  and  best  things  in 
God's  kingdom.  But  remember  this,  son," — 
Lincoln's  eyes  flashed  in  their  deep  sockets — 
"  if  a  boy  has  an  ancestor  who  has  done  big 
things,  the  way  to  be  proud  of  him  is  to  do  big 
things  yourself.  Living  on  the  glory  of  what 
somebody  else  has  done  before  you  is  a  mighty 
poor  kind  of  living.  I  never  knew  but  one  man 
that  was  perfect  and  I'd  never  have  known  he 
was  if  he  hadn't  told  me  so.  Nobody  else  ever 
found  it  out.  But  if  we  can't  be  perfect,  we  can 
grow  less  imperfect  by  trying  every  day  to  serve 
our  fellowmen.     Remember  that,  Tom." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  Assassination  of  Abraham  Lincoln 

/^  N  the  evening  of  Good  Friday,  April  14, 
1865,  Laura  Keene,  an  English  actress  of 
great  repute  in  America,  was  to  play  Our  Ameri- 
can Cousin  at  Ford's  Theater,  the  chief  place  of 
amusement  for  war-time  Washington. 

That  afternoon,  Assistant-Secretary-of-War 
Dana  was  notified  by  wire  that  Jacob  Thomp- 
son of  Mississippi,  once  Secretary  of  the  Inte- 
rior under  our  poor  old  wavering  President, 
Buchanan,  afterwards  a  leading  Secessionist, 
would  take  a  steamship  for  England  that 
evening  at  Portland,  Maine. 

What  shall  I  do?  "  Dana  asked  Stanton. 
Arrest  him!     No,  wait;  better  go  over  and 
see  the  President." 

So  Dana  went  to  the  White  House.  Ofiftce- 
hours  were  over.  He  found  Lincoln  washing  his 
hands. 

307 


li 


i( 


(I 


(I 


308  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

"Halloo,  Dana!"  was  Lincoln's  greeting. 
"What's  up?" 

The  telegram  was  read  aloud. 
What  does  Stanton  say?  " 
He   says   to   arrest  him,   but   that   I   should 
refer  the  question  to  you.'" 

"  Well,  no,  I  rather  think  not.  When  you 
have  got  an  elephant  by  the  hind  legs  and  he's 
trying  to  run  away;  it's  best  to  let  him  run." 

Dana  reported  this  to  Stanton. 

"Oh,  stuff!"  said  Stanton. 

But  Thompson  was  not  arrested,  so  that  the 
last  recorded  act  of  Lincoln  as  President  was 
one  of  mercy. 

In  the  upper  stage-box,  to  the  right  of  the 
audience,  that  evening,  sat  Abraham  Lincoln, 
President  of  the  United  States,  Mrs.  Lincoln,  a 
friend.  Miss  Harris,  and  an  ofBcer,  Major  Henry 
R.  Rathbone.  The  cares  of  State  seemed  to 
have  slipped  for  the  moment  from  Lincoln's 
shoulders.  He  had  bowed  smilingly  from  the 
box  in  response  to  the  cheers  of  the  packed  audi- 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  309 

ence  in  the  body  of  the  house.  He  had  followed 
intently  the  action  of  the  amusing  play,  con- 
stantly smiling,  often  applauding.  The  eyes  of 
the  little  party  of  four  were  bent  upon  the  stage, 
about  ten  o'clock,  when  the  door  of  the  box  was 
jerked  violently  open  behind  them.  As  they 
turned  at  the  noise,  Death  stalked  in  upon 
them. 

Five  minutes  before,  Tom  Strong  had  been 
idly  strolling  along  Tenth  Street  and  had  paused 
at  the  theater  door  to  read  the  play-bills  posted 
there.  A  small  group  of  belated  play-goers  was 
at  the  ticket-booth.  A  man  shoved  roughly 
through  them.  A  woman's  '*Oh!"  of  surprise 
and  protest  drew  Tom's  attention  to  the  man. 
He  had  seen  him  but  thrice  before,  yet  the  man's 
face  was  engraved  upon  his  memory.  Once,  at 
Charlestown,  Virginia,  Wilkes  Booth  had  stood 
in  the  ranks  of  the  militia,  eagerly  awaiting  the 
execution  of  John  Brown.  Once,  upon  a  rail- 
road train  north  of  Baltimore,  Wilkes  Booth  had 
drugged  the  boy  and  left  him,  as  the  scoundrel 


310  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

thought,  to  die.  Once,  upon  a  railroad  platform 
at  Kingston,  Alabama,  Wilkes  Booth  had  rec- 
ognized him  and  had  again  sought  his  death. 
Whose  death  did  he  seek  to  compass  now? 
What  was  the  Confederate  spy  doing  here? 
Tom  had  scarcely  glimpsed  the  hawk-like  fea- 
tures, the  pallid  face,  the  flowing  black  hair  of 
his  foe,  when  Booth  disappeared  from  his  sight 
in  the  crowded  lobby  of  the  theater. 

Instantly  Tom  pursued  him.  But  he  was  de- 
layed by  the  little  group  through  whom  Booth 
had  elbowed  his  rough  way.  And  when  he 
reached  the  ticket-window,  he  found  no  money 
in  his  pocket  with  which  to  buy  admittance.  He 
had  put  on  civilian  clothes  that  evening  and  had 
left  his  scanty  store  of  currency  in  his  uniform. 
The  wary  ticket-seller,  used  to  all  sorts  of 
dodges  by  people  who  wanted  to  get  in  without 
paying,  laughed  at  his  story  and  refused  to  give 
him  a  ticket  on  trust.  Tom's  claim  that  he  was 
an  ofificer  caused  especial  amusement. 

"  That  won't  go  down,  bub,"  said  the  ticket- 
seller.    "  Try  to  think  up  a  better  lie  next  time. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   311 

And  clear  out  now.     Don't  block  up  the  passage- 
way." 

"  I  mt4st  get  in,"  said  Tom. 
"  You  shan't,"  snarled  the  man,  sure  that  he 
was  being  imposed  upon. 

The  doorkeeper,  attracted  by  the  little  row, 
had    come     towards     the     ticket-window.       He 
swung  his  right  arm  with  a  threatening  gesture. 
As    Tom    started    towards    him    he    struck    the 
threatened  blow,  but  his  clenched  fist  hit  noth- 
ing.    The  boy  had  ducked  under  his  arm  and 
had  fled  into  the  theater.     The  doorkeeper  pur- 
sued him.     But  Tom  was  now  making  his  way 
like    a    weasel    through    the    crowd.      He    had 
caught  sight  of  Wilkes  Booth  nearly  at  the  top 
of  the  right-hand  staircase  that  led  to  the  aisle 
from    which    the    upper    right-hand    box    was 
reached.      Without   any   actual   premonition    of 
the  coming  tragedy  which  was  to  echo  around 
the  world  upon  the  morrow,  he  still  felt  that 
Booth  had  in  mind  some  evil  deed  and  that  it 
was  his  duty  to  prevent  him.     As  he  struggled 
toward    the    foot   of   the    stairway,    Booth    saw 


312  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

him,  recognized  him  and  smiled  at  him,  a  smile 
of  triumphant  hideous  evil.     Tom  yelled: 

*'  Spy !  Confederate  spy !  Stop  him !  Let 
me  follow !  '* 

Upon  the  startled  crowd  there  fell  a  sudden 
stillness.  Nobody  laid  hand  upon  Booth,  but 
everybody  made  way  for  the  frantic  boy  who 
rushed  up  the  stairway  as  the  scoundrel  he 
chased  ran  down  the  corridor.  He  clutched  the 
newel  post  at  the  head  of  the  stairway  just  as 
Booth  flung  open  the  door  of  the  box.  Tom 
ran  towards  him. 

The  door  of  the  box  was  violently  jerked 
open.  Wilkes  Booth  sprang  across  the 
threshold.  He  put  his  pistol  close  to  the  head 
of  the  unarmed  man  he  meant  to  murder.  He 
fired.  The  greatest  American  sank  forward 
into  his  wife's  arms.  High  above  her  shrieks 
rose  the  actor's  trained  voice.  He  leaped  upon 
the  balustrade  of  the  box,  shouted  ''  Sic  semper 
tyrannis! "  and  jumped  down  to  the  stage.  He 
was  booted   and   spurred   for  his   escape.     His 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  313 

horse  was  held  for  him  near  the  stage-door. 
One  of  his  spurs  caught  upon  the  curtain  of  the 
box,  so  that  he  stumbled  and  fell  heavily.  But 
he  had  played  his  part  upon  that  stage  many  a 
time  before.  He  knew  every  nook  and  cranny 
of  the  mysterious  labyrinth  behind  the  foot- 
lights. He  rose  to  his  feet,  disregarding  a 
twisted  ankle,  and  rushed  to  safety — for  a  few 
hours.  He  reached  his  horse  and  galloped  into 
the  calm  night  of  God,  profaned  forever  by  this 
hideous  crime  of  a  besotted  fanatic. 

The  martyred  President  was  taken  to  a  neigh- 
boring house,  No,  453  Tenth  Street.  In  a  back 
hall  bed-room,  upon  the  first  floor,  that  that  was 
still  Abraham  Lincoln,  but  was  soon  to  cease 
to  be  so,  was  laid  upon  a  narrow  bed.  Tom  had 
helped  to  carry  him  there.  Wife  and  son,  John 
Hay,  Secretary-of-War  Stanton,  and  a  few 
others  crowded  into  the  tiny  room.  Doctors 
worked  feverishly  over  the  dying  man.  Their 
skill  was  in  vain.  The  slow  and  regular  breath- 
ing   grew    fainter.       The    automatic    moaning 


314  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

ceased.  A  look  of  unspeakable  peace  came  to 
the  face  the  world  now  knows  so  well.  In  a 
solemn  hush,  at  twenty-two  minutes  after  seven 
in  the  morning  of  Saturday,  April  15,  1865,  the 
great  soul  of  Abraham  Lincoln  went  back  to 
the  God  Who  had  given  him  to  America  and  to 
the  world.  A  moment  later  Stanton  spoke: 
''  Now  he  belongs  to  the  ages." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Tom  Hunts  Wilkes  Booth — The  End  of  the 
Murderer — Andrew  Johnson,  President  of 
THE  United  States — Tom  and  Towser  Go 
Home. 

Or^HE  assassination  of  Lincoln  was  not  the 
only  crime  that  stained  that  memorable 
night.  Secretary-of-State  Seward  was  stabbed 
in  his  sick-bed  by  one  of  Booth's  co-conspirators. 
Attempts  were  made  upon  the  lives  of  other 
Cabinet  ministers.  Many  arbitrary  arrests  had 
been  made  during  the  war  by  Secretary  Stanton. 
It  had  been  said  that  whenever  Stanton's  little 
bell  rang,  somebody  went  to  prison.  That  little 
bell  had  little  rest  this  Saturday.  Wholesale 
arrests  were  made  of  suspected  Southern  sym- 
pathizers who  might  have  known  something  of 
the  hideous  conspiracy  of  murder.  Stanton  put 
all  the  grim  energy  of  him  into  the  pursuit  of 

315 


3i6  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

the  leading  criminals.  He  was  said  never  to 
forget  anything.  One  of  the  things  he  had  not 
forgotten  was  that  Tom  Strong  knew  Wilkes 
Booth  by  sight.  He  sent  him  from  Lincoln's 
bedside,  hours  before  Lincoln  died,  to  join  a 
troop  of  cavalry  that  was  to  pursue  Booth.  The 
road  by  which  the  murderer  had  left  Washing- 
ton was  known.  Hard  upon  his  heels  rode  the 
avengers  of  crime.  Wherever  there  was  a  light 
in  one  of  the  few  houses  along  the  lonely  road, 
often  where  there  was  no  light,  the  occupants 
were  seized,  questioned,  sometimes  sent  to 
Washington  under  guard,  sometimes  released 
and  sternly  bidden  to  say  nothing  of  the  mid- 
night ride.  Piecing  together  scraps  of  informa- 
tion gathered  here  and  there,  studying  every 
crossroad  for  possible  hoof-marks  of  flight,  the 
silent  commander  of  the  cavalrymen  at  last  con- 
vinced himself  that  he  was  on  the  trail  of  the 
quarry.  The  troops  broke  into  full  gallop.  A 
few  minutes  before  dawn  they  reached  a  small 
village  on  the  bank  of  the  Potomac,  where  the 
fires  of  a  smithy  gleamed.    They  pulled  up  short 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  317 

as  the  startled  blacksmith  came  out  of  his  sooty 
shed. 

'*  What  are  you  doing  here?"  demanded  the 
captain. 

"  I've  been — I've  been — putting  on  a  horse- 
shoe, sir." 

"  For  what  kind  of  a  looking  man?  " 

"  He  said  his  name  was  Barnard." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Tom  from  his 
saddle,  "  but  Barnard  was  the  name  Wilkes 
Booth  once  gave  me  for  his  own."  At  the  be- 
ginning of  the  ride,  Tom  had  described  Booth's 
appearance  to  the  captain. 

"  Was  the  man  pale?  Did  he  have  long  black 
hair?" 

"  Long  black  hair,"  answered  the  blacksmith, 
''  but  his  cheeks  were  red.  He  seemed  excited. 
While  I  was  replacing  the  shoe  his  horse  had 
cast,  he  kept  drinking  brandy  from  a  bottle  he 
carried.  He  never  gave  me  none  of  it,"  the 
man  added  with  an  injured  air. 
Did  he  say  anything?  " 
Yes,  sir.     He  said  I'd  hear  great  news  later 


II 


(t 


3i8  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

today,  that  the  Southerners  had  won  their 
greatest  victory.  I  asked  him  where  and  he 
swore  at  me  and  told  me  to  shut  up.  But  he 
gave  me  a  silver  dollar.  Perhaps  it's  bad. 
Is  it?" 

The  blacksmith  pulled  out  of  his  grimy  pocket 
a  dollar  and  showed  it  to  the  captain. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  man  was?  "  was  the 
stern  command. 

"  No,  sir,  o'  course  I  don't.  I  s'pose  he  was 
Mr.  Barnard." 

"  He  was  Judas.  He  has  murdered  Abraham 
Lincoln.  And  he  has  given  you  one  of  the  forty 
pieces  of  silver." 

With  wild-eyed  horror,  the  smith  started 
back.  He  fiung  the  accursed  dollar  far  into  the 
Potomac. 

"  God's  curse  go  with  it,"  he  cried.  "  Cap- 
tain, the  man  went  straight  down  the  river  road. 
He  gave  his  horse  a  cut  with  his  whip  'n  he 
yelled  'Carry  me  back  to  ole  Virginny ! '  and 
he  went  off  lickety-split.  He  ain't  half-an-hour 
ahead  of  you." 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   319 

No  need  to  command  full  speed  now.  Every 
man  was  riding  hard.  Every  horse  was  putting 
his  last  ounce  of  strength  into  his  stride.  Within 
an  hour,  the  hounds  saw  the  slinking  fox  they 
chased.  Booth,  abandoning  his  exhausted  steed, 
took  refuge  in  a  tumble-down  barn.  A  cordon 
was  thrown  about  it  and  he  was  called  on  to 
surrender.  The  reply  was  a  shot.  Tom  heard 
the  whiz  of  the  bullet  as  it  tore  by  him.  The 
cavalry  pumped  lead  into  the  barn.  Once, 
twice,  thrice  they  fired.  At  the  first  volley,  the 
trapped  murderer  had  again  fired.  There  was  no 
answer  to  the  second  and  third.  With  reloaded 
carbines,  the  troopers  charged,  burst  open  the 
barred  door,  and  rushed  into  the  rickety  shed. 
A  man  lay  on  the  earthen  floor,  breath  and 
blood  struggling  together  in  his  gaping  mouth. 
As  they  gathered  about  him,  the  Captain 
asked : 

Do  you  know  this  man.  Captain  Strong?" 

Yes,  sir." 

Who  is  he?" 

Wilkes  Booth,  sir." 


u 


ii 


(( 


K 


320  Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

The  sound  of  his  own  name  half  recalled 
Booth  to  life.  He  looked  up  at  the  boy  who 
stood  beside  him  and  recognized  him.  Fero- 
cious hate  filled  the  glazing-  eyes.  Then  Wilkes 
Booth  went  to  his  eternal  doom,  hating  to  the 
end. 

"  Is  he  dead?  "  said  the  Captain,  turning  to  a 
major  of  the  medical  service,  who  had  galloped 
beside  Tom  on  that  fierce  ride  of  the  avengers. 
A  big,  bearded  man  knelt  beside  the  body  of 
Wilkes  Booth,  put  his  finger  where  the  pulse 
had  been  and  laid  his  hand  where  the  heart  had 
once  beat. 

"  He  is  dead,"  answered  Major  Hans  Rolf. 

His  body  was  thrust  somewhere  into  the  earth 
he  had  disgraced  or  else  was  flung,  weighted 
with  stones,  into  the  river,  all  the  flood  tides  of 
which  could  not  wash  away  the  black  guilt  of 
him.  No  man  knows  where  the  body  of  Wilkes 
Booth  was  buried. 

**  The  king  is  dead!     Long  live  the  king!  " 
When  Tom  rode  sadly  up  Pennsylvania  Ave- 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout  321 

nue,  with  a  crape-laden  flag  at  half-mast  over 
the  Capitol,  glad  for  the  stern  justice  that  had 
been  dealt  out  to  the  murderer  he  loathed,  but 
bowed  down  with  grief  for  the  murdered  Presi- 
dent he  had  loved,  Abraham  Lincoln  was  no 
longer  President  of  the  United  States.  In  his 
stead,  our  uncrowned  king  was  Andrew  John- 
son, of  Tennessee,  a  Southern  Unionist  who  had 
been  elected  Vice  President  when  the  people 
chose  Lincoln  a  second  time  for  their  ruler. 
Johnson  had  been  born  to  grinding  poverty  in  a 
rough  community  where  "  skule-l'arnin'  "  was 
not  to  be  had.  He  was  a  grown  man,  earning  a 
scanty  livelihood  as  a  village  tailor,  when  his 
wife  taught  him  to  read  and  write.  He  worked 
his  hard  way  up  in  life,  became  a  man  of 
prominence  in  his  village,  in  his  county,  in  his 
State,  until  he  was  chosen  for  Lincoln's  running- 
mate  as  a  representative  Southern  Unionist.  He 
was  of  course  a  man  of  native  force,  but  he 
sometimes  drowned  his  mind  in  liquor.  That 
fatal  habit  pulled  him  down.  He  was  a  failure 
as  a  President,  though  thereafter  he  served  his 


322   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

State  and  his  country  well  as  a  United  States 
Senator  from  Tennessee. 

The  White  House  was  changed  under  its  new 
ruler.  John  Hay,  full  of  cheer  and  wit,  was 
abroad  as  a  secretary  of  legation.  Nicolay,  his 
superior  officer,  was  a  consul  in  Europe.  The 
Lincoln  family  had  gone  West  through  a  sor- 
rowing country,  bearing  the  body  of  the  martyr- 
President  to  its  burial-place  in  Springfield, 
Illinois.  For  a  while  some  familiar  faces  were 
left.  At  first,  the  same  Cabinet  ministers  served 
the  new  President.  For  some  time,  Uncle  Moses 
had  to  learn  no  new  names  as  he  carried  about 
the  summons  to  the  Cabinet  meetings.  But  the 
visitors  to  the  White  House  had  changed  might- 
ily. Rough  men  from  Tennessee  and  the  other 
Border  States,  some  of  them  diamonds  in  the 
rough,  swarmed  there.  Lincoln  had  never  used 
tobacco.  The  new-comers  both  smoked  and 
chewed.  Clouds  of  smoke  filled  the  lower  story 
and  giant  spittoons  lined  the  corridors  and  in- 
vaded the  public  rooms.  Gradually  the  Repub- 
lican leaders  ceased  to  wait  upon  the  President. 


Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout   323 

Among  the  people  who  left  the  White  House 
soon  after  Lincoln  left  it  was  Tom  Strong.  On 
a  bright  May  morning  he  walked  across  the 
portico,  where  Towser  was  eagerly  awaiting 
him  and  where  Uncle  Moses  followed  him. 
Unk'  Mose  lifted  his  withered  black  hands  and 
called  down  blessings  on  the  boy  who  had  been 
his  angel  of  freedom  and  had  led  him  out  of 
bondage. 

"  De  good  Lawd  bress  you,  Mas'r  Tom.  And 
de  good  Lawd  bress  dat  dar  wufless  ol*  houn' 
dawg  Towser,  too.  'Kase  Towser,  he  lubs  you, 
Mas'r  Tom, — and  so  duz  I,"  Uncle  Moses  shyly 
added. 

The  venerable  old  negro  and  the  white  boy 
shook  hands  in  a  long  farewell  upon  the  steps 
of  the  White  House.  Then  Tom  turned  away 
from  the  historic  roof  that  had  so  long  sheltered 
him  and  walked  to  the  railroad  station,  to  take 
the  train  for  New  York.  Towser  trotted  stiffly 
by  his  side,  trying  at  every  step  to  lick  his  mas- 
ter's hand. 

Tom  Strong  studied  hard  at  home  and  then 


324   Tom  Strong,  Lincoln's  Scout 

went  to  Yale,  as  his  father  had  done  before  him. 
Towser  could  not  go  with  him.  The  laws  of 
Yale  forbade  it.  That  is  one  of  the  chief  dis- 
advantages of  being  a  dog.  Soon  after  Tom 
went  to  New  Haven,  Towser  went  to  heaven. 
At  least,  let  us  hope  he  did.  He  deserved  to  do 
so.  One  of  the  human  things  about  Martin 
Luther,  the  stern  founder  of  Protestantism  in 
Germany  in  the  Sixteenth  Century,  was  that  he 
once  said  to  a  tiny  girl,  weeping  over  the  death 
of  her  tiny  dog:  ''Do  not  cry,  little  maid;  for 
you  will  find  your  dog  in  heaven  and  he  will 
have  a  golden  tail." 

THE   END 


/ 


/ 


TOWSER 


MAY  HE  REST  IN  PEACE" 


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